


both sides now

by cupofkey



Series: both sides now [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anger Management, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bed & Breakfast, Character Study, Coming of Age, Compulsory Heterosexuality, Cooking, Death, Depression, Dissociation, F/F, Food Metaphors, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lesbian Character, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Nyotalia, Personal Growth, Self-Discovery, Self-Hatred, Sexuality, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, Writing this made me hungry, it sounds really dark but it's about growth i swear, seriously a lot of cooking and food descriptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 100,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23891503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupofkey/pseuds/cupofkey
Summary: Living with her brother, working minimum wage after dropping out of high school, volatile and miserable and suicidal beyond belief-- Chiara Vargas finds little solace in her life, if any.Moving to the windy Oregon coast to manage a rowdy bed & breakfast is the last thing on her to-do list. Life happens, regardless.(or: pretty girls, great meals, sad boi hours, and a room with a view.)
Relationships: Austria/Hungary (Hetalia), Female Austria/Male Hungary (Hetalia), Female South Italy/Female Spain (Hetalia), Minor or Background Relationship(s), South Italy/Spain (Hetalia)
Series: both sides now [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1847434
Comments: 107
Kudos: 60





	1. up and down

**Author's Note:**

> please read the tags! I'll provide specific warnings on a chapter by chapter basis, but be aware this story will cover subjects such as mental illness, suicide, sexuality, death, trauma, etc in depth. there will be no graphic/violent detail, but if any of those sound triggering, this is not the fic for you. there is a decent amount of like... emotional pain? it's very much a slow burn, so expect lots of stuff.
> 
> the characters presented here are really my personal reinterpretations of canon characters in a very different context, and this fic is an attempt to explore the previously mentioned themes while also examining character nuances/development/relationships. a good amount of the main characters have capital i Issues and are *not* perfect. chiara/fem!romano especially is extremely mentally unwell at the beginning; her problems and self-image take a serious toll on her. there is a Lot of self-hatred!
> 
> to be clear, this is not a fix-it fic or a glorified portrayal of mental illness; rather, I'm here to explore all the shades of gray and my own perspectives, experiences and issues. please let me know if you find anything flawed and we'll talk about it!
> 
> all that aside, I just wanted to talk about lesbians and cooking and the outdoors... as one does. this is not a completely miserable story I promise! (it's my excuse to write a love letter to food.)
> 
> title (and chapter title) from the beautiful "both sides now" by joni mitchell! I'll be naming all chapter titles after the song linked in the summary. listen along if you’d like :)
> 
> CWs for this first chapter: allusions to suicide, and the end of the chapter (starting from "The moment Chiara shuts and locks the door...") pretty explicitly lays out suicidal ideation/planning, along with drugs/drug use. tread carefully.
> 
> please enjoy! :)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've looked at clouds from both sides now  
> From up and down and still somehow  
> It's cloud's illusions I recall  
> I really don't know clouds at all."  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["Both Sides Now"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pbn6a0AFfnM)

“Look, you just don’t smile enough,” Chiara’s manager says, demonstrating a hideous smile himself, twitchy eyes flicking all over her. “You don’t do a lot of things _enough_ , you get me? I just don’t think you’re using your full potential the way you should be.”

A vague hand gesture circling her face, corners of his mouth widening. Every time he looks at her, it feels like someone is spitting on her face, her neck, hands, legs, wet and disgusting. This is the last straw— first her pay cut last week, then the constant negging, hearing about him feeling up employees and stare at customers, sorting through piles and piles of Aliexpress fuckery, but it’s time to smile now, because she has so much _potential_ going to waste.

 _Full potential of what?_ Her fists tense up in her pockets. Distantly, she can feel her whole body shaking. Full potential of what? She asks herself that again, and again, because— 

“This is retail, you son of a bitch,” she spits right back, and he flinches away at the cursing, “and I don’t do anything other than sort inventory in the back and make the displays, because I get paid exactly minimum fucking wage to work at this shitty little boutique, and I love to be treated like I’m working at Hooters, and I love trying to find value in your sweatshop clothes you pass off as vintage, I just _love_ it so much I actually have to _stop_ myself from smiling all the time!”

Chiara can feel her mouth stretching into a rabid expression that must be pretty demented judging by the look on her manager’s face— _good. Good, I hope you’re scared_ , she thinks, the darting anger in her chest radiating through the rest of her body, her brain consumed into a vibrating mess.

“Chiara, let’s try to calm down, okay?” He’s tilted backwards a little too much. The few boho-chic college students around them have fully turned to stare.

 _They’re probably offended they’re not buying real vintage_ is the most coherent thought in her head. _I’m so funny_ is a close second, and _I’m really not that funny_ is a third. Everything else is broiling in that hot, cutting anger, and she floats above it, her real body shaking and shaking and her vision dizzy.

“I’m not calming down. I didn’t ask for your shit.”

“I’m your employer—” The indignant, _hurt_ way he says it, like she’s called his puppy ugly— she’s completely doused in a flood of rage.

“No, you’re not.” Chiara’s voice pitches up into a full-bodied yell. Her heartbeat is thudding through every bone in her body. “You’re a sexual predator, an exploitative douche, and your business is a sham, and you’re not my fucking employer. I’m resigning. Actually, I know exactly what you did to Marnie in the back last week, and the only reason I’m still here is to cover her shift so she can talk to the cops.”

Her eyes are so blurry she can’t see him stumble backwards (which is such a shame, really), only hearing the crash and clang of clothes and hangers and racks and the nervous chatter of customers. Something collapses completely— there’s cold metal in her fist, she’s shoving the rack of oversize hoodies on her right into the wall, fuming as he yells incoherently, fuming as hands collide with her shoulders and shove her back. Her mouth is yelling something that’s probably just _fuck you fuck you_ and her arms are flailing and her body is burning— 

_I’m having a mental breakdown in my least favorite place in the world_ , she thinks. More words just keep coming out of her, all of it incoherent at this point, and she’s tired of it all, so she picks herself up and maneuvers herself like a ragdoll in the direction of the break room, taking a heavy breath and slumping against the wall as soon as the door slams behind her.

Her head is spinning horribly. Her throat burns from _screaming_ , what is she, five? The burner’s turned off and her rage simmers down in an instant and now all she can hear is her manager’s distant voice, probably on the phone with someone who has the potential to fuck everything up for her even further.

_Chiara, what have you done?_

It’s a great question. Her body still thrums with adrenaline but the anger is gone, so it just feels uncomfortably nervy, and the cool concrete under her does nothing to soothe it. 

It might have been a minute, it might have been an hour— nobody comes in to bother her or start their shift. Maybe the world can just collapse around her, and she never has to deal with it, or any of these people ever again. Maybe she can wait here in this dingy break room until she crumbles with it.

 _I was planning to quit anyway. It doesn’t matter._ That’s what she needs to think, anyway. _Get up, get my stuff, get out._

_Never see any of them again. Never have to go to work again._

_Get up. Get out._

_He deserved it. Leave._

She unfolds her legs, brushes her bangs out of her eyes, stands up. Opens the locker. Purse, wallet keys lipstick phone still inside, jacket, closes the locker. Her limbs are wooden. Every movement is like jerking the strings of some stubborn marionnette, but her eyes are clear and her head is still now. _That has to count for something._

Out the back door, walking the long way to the bus stop, Chiara doesn’t begin to rethink exactly what just happened— really, it’s nothing. It’s nothing right now, and it doesn’t matter. The only real thing going on in her life is the clicking sound her boots make on the sidewalk, the strap of her purse digging into her shoulder and catching on the collar of her shirt, the gentle sway of her hair against her shoulders and neck. 

The late afternoon breeze and sun combine into something full and satisfying. The air feels like an impending summer. _I’m such a piece of shit_ emerges from her thoughts anyway. Her right hand hurts. She gets to the bus stop and sits and waits.

She can already hear Feli’s pleading voice: What happened, Chiara? Why’d you do that? I’m sorry, that’s so scary! Sympathetic, straining to reach out to her, lined with the obligatory _I’m your brother, of course I care_ , as if she didn’t just act like a child mid-tantrum in public for the nth time, as if she isn’t a disappointment obsessed with pushing back against being a normal human being.

 _This self pity sounds so stupid_ , she thinks. _I keep sounding so stupid. I just did the stupidest thing of my life._

All Chiara can do is stare at her hands in her lap and pick at her nail polish until it goes from a fresh coat of burgundy to a chipped disaster littering her jacket and hands. Something crawls into her throat and does not get out.

When the bus pulls up and she climbs in, sitting at the center left, there’s nothing left to pick. She brushes off the remaining chips still clinging to her jeans and blouse, hands sandy with bits of nail polish. _Think. What color next? What to cook for lunch tomorrow? Novels to read?_

Unsurprisingly, that doesn’t last long, and she doesn’t read anything anymore. Actually, it’s immediately replaced, a throbbing anticipation for Feli’s reaction to her latest fuckup swelling and ripening in her head. She doesn’t think she can handle another word coming from anyone today, though there will undoubtedly be many words from him— she doesn’t think she’s ready for Hurricane Feli to fuss and plead, though there will undoubtedly be fussing and pleading.

They’re the same age, but where Feli is vivacious and successful and remarkably twenty-something Chiara is spiteful and mentally seven years old. Where Feli is caring, loving, Chiara is lovingly devoid of morals or concern for anything. _As it should be_ , she thinks. _Expecting nothing less from myself._

The bus grinds to a halt. The couple sitting behind her leaves, and a group of three women get on the bus, probably in their early thirties and decked out in hiking gear. Their chatter is easy, familiar. One of them has a side shave. Looking at them is a fine addition to Chiara’s headache, as the banter turns to bitter on her part— actually, it’s unbearable to look at these innocent strangers having a normal time.

_Imagine being well-adjusted. It couldn’t be me. I’m so disgusting._

What kind of person is that kind of jealous? _It’s just me, Chiara Vargas._

Next to board is a middle aged man with a cane, wearing a floppy cap that looks about forty years behind the times. Then a younger guy, probably in his very early twenties, younger than her. He’s dressed in a well-tailored suit and a modestly checked tie. Rolex Submariner on his wrist, Ferragamo loafers— _rich kid on his way back to his dorm after a job interview_ is what springs to mind.

He looks really nice, actually, his hair neat and fresh, nails clean and short. _A good kind of guy to like_ , her brain helpfully supplies. _You should keep staring at him._

_I don’t feel like it._

_Come on now. Here’s a good one. Think about him. Doesn’t he look nice?_

The stop before hers passes, and two of the women get off. The one with the side shave is the only one left. She has a big, dangling earring on her left ear, Chiara realizes, silver tassels brushing the exposed shoulder and collarbones. Every time the bus turns or sways, the tassels and beads drag over her skin and glimmer in the sun.

She’s been staring for a distressingly long time. Chiara realizes this, her guts churning up, right as the woman turns her pale eyes in her direction.

Deep breath. She stands up, gathers her things, averts her eyes from the woman just to make eye contact with the rich kid, who smiles shortly back. _Oh, god, stop looking at me,_ she thinks. _Everyone. I’ve had it. I’m so tired._

The bus pulls up to her street. Chiara can spot the pale blue of her apartment from here, like a baby blue beacon. It feels kind of good to be going home for once, to curl up in bed, to sleep and exist in peace. It’s probably being away from that godforsaken boutique, not a genuine desire to be home— still. Still, she’s tired. Sleep is the obvious cure.

She gets off the bus, breeze fluffing up her hair, and all the tension she didn’t even feel in her shoulders bleeds out. Feli can figure it out later. Maybe tomorrow, after she’s had a good nap and that long sleep.

After all, what else is there to do before the big day? She did plan on doing it next week— there’s still some time to kill, naps to be had, meals to be made. Actually, there are some tomatoes in the fridge. Maybe she’ll start with those. Deep breaths. Slow steps. The walk home is a short one.

* * *

The moment Chiara steps inside, it’s clear the walk to her room won’t be so short. The first thing she catches is a whiff of simmering tomatoes and rosemary, supplemented by sizzling and bubbling, the complete sensory experience of cooking pasta soaking through the air around her— semolina, acidity, sweetness, savory and fragrant. Feli’s voice faintly floats along with the rest of the noises, humming sweetly with tinny phone speakers.

“Are you using my tomatoes?” she yells. “I was gonna use them for caprese!”

“Hi!” Feli calls. “How was your day? You’re back early, what’s up?”

Chiara kicks off her shoes and makes her way through the living room to the kitchen, weaving around the piles of books all over the floor. _He still hasn’t finished sorting them. It’s been three weeks,_ she thinks. _I might actually have to help him. He’s never gonna finish it himself._

In the kitchen, Feli is stirring a pot of pasta, a saucepan bubbling away next to it. He doesn’t look up as she approaches to peek, just fishes out a rigatoni noodle to taste. On the counter, his phone blasts Vivaldi.

“Almost finished,” he says, smiling. “Check the seasoning on the sauce so you’re not fussy about it.”

Chiara lifts the lid on the saucepan, dipping a wooden spoon in to taste a couple drops. There’s an empty can of pureed tomatoes on the counter, salt and basil stems scattered all over the place. _It’s so messy. At least he didn’t use my tomatoes._

“I’m… not eating,” she says. Licks the spoon again, swallows, licks her lips. For a moment, the tension in her temples softens, the clench of her eyebrows relaxes just a bit, everything in her head redirecting to the taste on her tongue. It feels good— the sauce is sharp and full and has a pleasant zing of heat, peppery and bold. It smells like a home.

“It’s alright, though. On the strong side… you really cooked down the tomatoes. Are you making vodka sauce with this?”

“Well, if that’s what it takes to get you to eat some,” Feli replies, content smile still on his face. His eyes scrunch up in that way that’s uniquely Feli, beaming in her general direction, radiating boundless energy into the room in that way that’s also Feli. “So what exactly happened today?”

She rolls her eyes and puts the lid back on the pan. “Nothing. I’m going to get ready for bed.”

“It’ll be done in a few!” Feli calls after her, the smile on his face bleeding into his words. “And it’s barely 5.” The unspoken implication of _also, doesn’t your shift start at 4?_ lingers behind, but Chiara doesn’t dignify that with a response.

First, to her room, to change out of her painstakingly tucked-in blouse jacket jeans combination into an old shirt from high school and shorts. Then, the bathroom, to take off her makeup and wash her face and scrub at her hands and arms, briskly brushing her nails and cuticles. And back to her room, into her bed, under her covers, cocooned in warm things. She’s still cold— it always takes her a little while to warm up. Curling in on herself, Feli’s voice echoes into the fortress:

“Chiara! I’m sprinkling the parsley!”

A pause, and then, as a footnote, he calls, “I used the leftover heavy cream. Rigatoni alla vodka, splash of Smirnoff. Right?”

She doesn’t bother responding. The thought of a steaming bowl of creamy, rich pasta, fragrant with fresh parsley and just a little bit of a boozy undercurrent, every bite toothsome, al dente— it’s a good thought. It’s a great thought. But her whole body also feels like it’s been run through a juicer, and every time Feli speaks it takes a couple more years off her life.

_Talking to him is like being forced to stare straight into the sun. Less than eight seconds is the key._

(She’ll just microwave it later, ideally in the middle of the night when she’s feeling too manic to sleep or rest, which was the plan for after her shift anyway. It’ll be much worse, but it’ll still be pretty good— this is the kind of compromise you have to make. There will be good pasta later, when Feli’s at work and she has the house to her unemployed self.)

Plans change as always when Feli starts tapping on her door, knocking interspersed with “Hey,” and “Hey, Chiara,” and “I put in extra parsley,” and “Chiara, come on, it’s time to eat. You need to eat. Chiara.”

“Fine, fine,” she mutters. The knocking pauses, knocks a couple more times, and stops.

Crawling out of her blanket hole is nightmarish and freezing— she tosses on a hoodie and the thickest pair of sweats she can find. Stares at herself in the mirror, the slightly unhinged look on her face, frizzy hair in her eyes. Deep breaths. Pasta. Think about that.

When she opens the door, Feli’s still there, staring fondly, forks in hand.

“Come on, it’s gonna get cold,” he chirps. She mutely follows him back to the kitchen and sits at the stool in front of her portion (extra parsley), taking the offered fork. The sauce smells even better now, creamy bright orange instead of bold red, the sharpness of the tomatoes softened by rich cream and rounded out with cooked-off alcohol. Feli passes her the Pecorino and the grater and slides into the seat next to hers.

She grates her cheese, feels the words strain at her throat, pry her mouth open: “Looks good. Thanks.”

Feli just smiles down at his plate and takes a big bite. Chiara takes a breath, finally lets herself follow his lead.

It is, indeed, just as good as it looks and smells— each bite is steaming, satisfying, savory, and the parsley is as sweet and fresh as she likes it. They eat in silence (as she likes it). And Feli doesn’t say anything else.

It’s all as she likes it, really, until he has to start talking again.

“So…” he says, swallowing a bite of pasta. “Really, what happened?”

“Don’t know what you mean,” she says, sullen, childish.

“Did something happen at work?”

Chiara takes a big bite of pasta and hopes that’s enough of a response for him.

Feli shrugs, his face calculatingly innocent as he glances sideways at her. “Did you just decide to go home early? Did you get hurt?”

God, if only. Actually, though, how is Chiara supposed to respond? What is she going to say, _I made a big scene and resigned_? How fucking stupid does that sound? What else is she supposed to say? Why can’t she just stay silent forever? Mostly, why does he keep talking?

“I made a big scene and resigned,” she eventually says. “It’s really stupid. I didn’t even get to ask about my check.”

Feli just nods, takes another bite, a paragon of chill forgiveness for another stupid action in a series of stupid actions. The simple gesture ticks her off more than it should.

“I’m sure you’ll get it soon, right?” His voice is optimistic. “Payday was coming up anyway.”

“Well, it was really, really stupid,” Chiara says despite herself, her face burning, that irritation starting to seep into her words. “I was so dumb. I didn’t think or anything. I was just freaking out, and I probably damaged some property. It was just so stupid.” With every word that spills out, that throbbing shame in her head intensifies, searing a hole through her cheeks.

Feli swallows, spins to face her completely with concern radiating off his frown. “Hey, are you okay? Oh god, are you crying? I’m sorry, do you want a hug? Seriously, are you okay—”

“I’m not crying,” Chiara says, her shame-annoyance mounting. “Quit it.”

“I’m giving you a hug,” Feli declares. “Get up.”

 _This bitch_. Chiara looks him dead in the face, hardens her expression, and goes back to her rigatoni. “I’m eating. I’m tired. Let me be.”

Feli huffs, pouting a little (isn’t he a grown man?) and Chiara actually rolls her eyes this time.

“Feli, come on. That’s enough. It’s just… stupid shit. Leave me alone.”

Feli doesn’t respond for once, which Chiara takes as a cue to resume savoring her food to the quiet sounds of chewing and forks on bowls. The linoleum counter is cold on her arm, the bowl is hot on her palm, the pasta is warm in her mouth— as much as she wants to rush her food and fly off into her room, it’s a food moment. It’s important. She needs all the serotonin she can get from it (which is a fairly substantial amount).

In truth, Chiara lives to eat (and she definitely doesn’t do anything for living’s sake.) Everything else pales in comparison— she isn’t missing a thing. Nature is pretty but ephemeral, family is fine but insignificant, whatever. There is little to no point in believing in any of it. But there’s nothing quite like slow-cooked risotto that sticks to the ribs, steaming, the savory crispy-crunchy of the Korean fried chicken from the food cart two blocks over, that extravagant burst of life in each sip of strong, cold coffee with condensed milk… the warmth in her chest as she makes her way through the rest of this rigatoni alla vodka proves it again. It’s delicious. The whole of her gets filled in, just a little.

Her fork clatters against the side of the bowl, now empty. Feli gets up, presumably because he’s done too, gently sweeping both out of her hands and stacking her bowl under his. Tottering after him on stiff knees, she snags a glass of water and sticks it under the faucet as he turns it on for her.

“Good?” Feli says, that ever-present smile on him glinting up at her.

“Yeah.” Chiara gulps down the whole glass and turns to set it down. Something heavy snares her, Feli’s skinny arms pulling her into his full body weight, and for a moment there’s absolutely nothing in her brain. Then the panic starts to set in.

“Feli—”

“I’m trying to hug my sister! My twin! My other half!” His hair is tickling her ear.

The hysterical frustration doesn’t go away— actually, it gets antsy and horrible, and her whole body shivers like crazy.

“Fuck get the hell off me get off—” the words surge out, like they did back at work, her hands moving to shove him, but he just lets go with raised eyebrows and a half-smile.

“Try again?” he says, arms still parted, a laugh on the edge of _again_ . Everything in Chiara’s body churns up into one runny mess. _Get mad. Get fucking angry. Yell back. Shove back. Stop smiling. Stop laughing. Stop it. Stop acting like this. You can’t keep acting like this. Stop treating me like this. Stop treating yourself like this._

“I—” She starts, stops, throat closing with frustration, rage, confusion, a million other things— Feli’s face just splits into a full smile.

“Hey, go to bed like you wanted to,” he says, turning to the sink, that fucking smile still on his face. “I’ll take care of the dishes.”

She stands there, stares at her brother, a grown man, stares at herself, a surly child, her socked feet on the floor, grounding her here.

“Come on, go to bed, okay? Have a good night. I love you.” He starts rinsing the saucepan. _A grown man. A surly child._

Feli doesn’t even look that much like a capital-G Grown Man, if she’s being honest— he’s skinny, about her height, can’t grow facial hair for shit, fashionably floppy hair, smiling a smile that makes him at least three years younger. And he’s not anything special (no offense to him, but an accountant at the community credit union is no CEO). But he’s an adult regardless, and he pays his bills on time. He dissects his emotions hourly (definitely too much, but it’s more than she does in a full year). He makes art. He plays music. He has friends. Most importantly, he’s not an abject failure of a person, something Chiara cannot say about herself. 

None of this stops that creeping repulsion that arises whenever he does shit like that, not because he’s disgusting, because he’s not, he just keeps _hugging her_ . He keeps _talking_. It’s like watching someone fish a raccoon out of a dumpster to give it a kiss— damp, rotting, cringe-inducing disgust. The act of just standing there as he gets back to humming to himself while scrubbing at their bowls makes Chiara’s stomach turn.

_Go to bed, okay? Have a good night. I love you._

Full of concern. Full of kindness. Giving her space, but offering a hand. She fishes herself out of _that_ dumpster and turns to go to her room. Feli doesn’t say anything.

The moment Chiara shuts and locks the door, the rest of those feelings melt off, the exhaustion from all the stupid shit shifting into restlessness and pressed-in rage— she flings open the door of her closet and starts digging under an older pair of jeans. A roll of duct tape, a little snack-size plastic bag with the pills she’s been hoarding, and a knife. She counts the pills like she does every night. Then she pokes at the cheap charcoal stove she bought last week with her toe, checks that it’s still hidden behind a cardboard box full of papers from high school. She can’t see them, but she knows the charcoal briquettes are in there too, snuggled between report cards and newspaper. The thought brings nothing but euphoria. She counts the pills again. Most of them are from her ex— three Vicodin, a perc, five Restoril, and something that’s apparently a Subsys, but for all she knows it could just be the fucky street fentanyl instead of the standard prescription drug, seeing as she paid ten dollars for it at a party.

_You’re killing yourself anyway, all the better if it’s the fucky street fentanyl. The guy selling it was off his fucking rocker._

Chiara tucks the pills back under the jeans, pushes the cardboard box back into place. Her heart is thumping along a little slower now— she feels alright. A week or so left. Maybe she can let go of her clenched-up _everything_ for a little, take some final breaths of air and bites of food that aren’t tainted bitter, savor what she can savor.

Euphoria. That word circles back around, and it’s a little stomach turning, but it doesn’t feel as wrong as she thought it would. _Am I euphoric to die? Or am I just so miserable that it feels good? What does that even mean, anyway?_

_Don’t lie to yourself, it’s euphoria. You’re happy, you’re just positively foaming at the mouth for it. You’re relieved. You get everything you want._

Nausea floods into her chest like she’s gulping it up. Chiara shuts her closet door, turns off the lights, and crawls into bed.


	2. open and close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They open and close you  
> Then they talk like they know you  
> They don't know you  
> They're friends and they're foes, too  
> Trouble child  
> Breaking like the waves at Malibu."  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["Trouble Child"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yGiHlmJe1Eg)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably be posting the first few chapters of this fairly quickly, maybe the whole thing, though I'm not sure. btw none of this is beta-read or anything, just lightly edited by me; let me know if you have opinions lol. also there's no detailed eating but there's some cooking... we eating good next chapter I promise
> 
> and Roberto is the name I use for grandpa Roma fyi!
> 
> CWs for this chapter: more suicidal thoughts, recreational drug use at the beginning, discussion of abusive/narcissistic parents, and more anger issues and mental breakdowns... as is expected. with the parents, it's something that's more in the past, not really actively triggering in the present. as always, tread carefully!
> 
> please enjoy :)

The next day is uneventful— Chiara gets up around eleven, long after Feli has gone to work. Her lunch is an orange she pried open with chipping fingernails. Normally, she’d be repulsed at considering that a meal, but yesterday’s explosions sucked in all the energy and appetite she had left and left her here, unable to put together more than an orange and a glass of water. The thought of even putting bread in the toaster and, god forbid, buttering it and sprinkling on some brown sugar, is abhorrent.

Mostly, she just sits on the couch, checks her phone for zero messages and an endless Reddit feed. She finds herself humming a few bars of Feli’s Vivaldi. She contorts her body and legs and hangs slightly off the couch, like a rumpled throw. Too many hours pass. Her left arm is completely numb and has been for the better part of thirty minutes, and she has no intention of moving it any time soon.

4:30 hits, and soon enough the door clicks open and Feli makes his way in, singing to himself under his breath and tossing his keys on the table.

“Hey, how was your first work-free day?” he says, grinning. “Get anything done?”

“It was fine.”

He fishes out his wallet and phone and drops them next to his keys. “Oh, I was gonna ask: are you gonna start looking for another job soon?”

Chiara feels herself hesitating, the “sure” dying on her lips; Feli just shucks off his jacket and smiles sweetly.

“Don’t worry about it, I’m sure you’ll be great!”

“Sure.” It takes a lot of effort to suppress an eye roll at that one. Feli ignores her tone as always, flopping onto the couch instead.

“Hey,” he says, and here his smile stiffens a little, and he looks a lot less sunny and a lot more sweaty— “So I was thinking about having someone over? For dinner today, I just wanted to ask are you okay with us being here, you can eat right now, or I can just go… um, to his house… I’m sorry I didn’t ask earlier, I just thought—”

“That I’d be at work,” Chiara mutters, her own soul shriveling with the expression on Feli’s face, nervous, eager to please. Humiliating. Probably shot through in repulsion because  _ living with your sister at the age of 24 is fucking humiliating, Chiara. Think about that one. _

“So…” Feli says, his hands loosely fidgeting with the front of his shirt. “Is that okay? What do you think, I can go to his house too, it’s not a big deal—”

“Wait, is this your  _ boyfriend? _ ” Chiara suddenly says, her eyebrows (and voice) flying up before she can even think about it. Feli immediately flushes deep, mouth moving without saying anything, flustered like the horrible liar he is. “Oh my god, you’re inviting your  _ boyfriend _ over, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well…” He presses his lips together, takes a deep breath. “He’s… I mean, he’s not my  _ boyfriend _ boyfriend… or even my boyfriend, I mean, and last time I had my ex over, well.”

“He was a piece of shit,” Chiara says, and tilts further back until half her head is hanging off the couch. “He was literal garbage. He was the kind of bitch to spit on the waiter, or make fun of women exercising in public, or, I don’t know, he was just shit and I’m glad you never have to see him again.”

A long pause, in which they just stare at each other, until Feli bursts into a short laugh equal parts disbelief and hysteria. Chiara lets herself laugh back, just for a second.

“Yeah. Me too.” Another pause, then with a smile: “I’m actually glad you acted the way you did that time. Thank you. I love you. And that’s why I’m asking you about this right now, because you totally don’t have to be here if you don’t want to, and same with us, we can always go somewhere else, you can meet him if you want, um, yeah. It’s up to you.”

That little bit of Feli’s incandescence that leapt over into Chiara abruptly fizzles out, melting back into the rest of that bitter stew. Nothing’s wrong with any of it; actually, if she wasn’t a piece of shit, she’d be honored.

Instead, she lets out a heavy, rattling breath, pulling herself upright on the couch.  _ What a fucking headache. _

“Doesn’t matter. He won’t see me at all, don’t worry. I’ll just—” She gestures vaguely at the window, then the door, then she picks up her phone and herself and turns to leave.

“Wait,” Feli says, then again, more frantic, “wait, hey, I didn’t mean, um, I’m sorry! Wait, actually, I don’t know what… Chiara!” But she can’t see his face, so it doesn’t feel as head-straining, just pinches her throat shut as she shuts her door and burrows into bed.

_ He doesn’t know what he said wrong, _ she thinks.  _ He didn’t say anything wrong. _

_ I’m so shitty. _

_ Why do I feel so shitty? _

_ Why am I jealous of him? I don’t even want a boyfriend. I don’t even want anything. _

_ Why does my head hurt so much? _

She unlocks her phone and checks the weather. Then she pulls up a video of someone cutting huge sheets of lilac-marble soap into bars and watches that for a while, turning up the gentle background music and trying not to focus on the pots clanging in the kitchen. That lasts for maybe half an hour, and she watches until the last bar of soap is neatly wrapped in tissue and packed away.

Her knees and joints and back have started to ache every time she rolls over. Her head still hurts. Her eyes are stinging. Every emotion in her body is shoved into a corner of her brain and keeping it contained and silent is an incredible feat of endurance, and she grinds her teeth, curling up tighter in bed.

It’s almost 5:30 at this point.  _ His boyfriend will probably be over soon _ .

_ I can’t fucking do this anymore. _

She pulls herself up, flings off the covers, digs in her closet until she finds the plastic bag under her jeans, swallows a Vicodin dry. Now her throat actually hurts, and she’s down one Vicodin.

_ Why did I do that? Chiara, what were you thinking? What was the point? _

_ There’s six days left, it shouldn’t matter, right? What’s one Vicodin? That’s what the charcoal burner is for. _

She desperately needs some water. The high will not be worth it. This was a bad idea. This was such a bad idea, and so is everything else she’s ever done in her life. Chiara shoves the bag away and throws on a windbreaker and a real pair of pants, tosses her keys and wallet into her purse, and walks out of her room on her arthritic knees.

Water first; she breezes by Feli chopping up an unruly bundle of lettuce, ignoring whatever he’s saying as she gulps down half a glass of water and sighs in relief. Feli continues to talk to her, probably groveling and apologizing for the non-mistakes he made, and Chiara drops her cup in the sink and turns to leave.

_ Don’t listen to him. Don’t listen to what he’s saying. Get out of the house. Let him and the mystery man have their quality time. Deep breaths. Shoes on. _

“Chiara! Chiara, seriously, where are you going?”

She’s already halfway out the door, but before she can stop herself she calls back: “Have fun!”

The frantic querying on Feli’s part cuts off, and she shuts and locks the door. Outside, the hallway is musty and cold, the dirty tile clicking under her Chelsea boots. Stepping outside is better— the sun slants golden in her eyes, and the air is stagnant and hot, pillowy on her face and in her lungs.  _ It almost feels like being a well-adjusted person. _

_ As if. Name one well-adjusted day in your life. I dare you. _

She rounds the block, waits for the crosswalk to turn green. The library is maybe twenty minutes away, if she walks quickly, so the Vicodin should kick in right on time. There’ll probably be some open chairs for maximum zoning out.

_ Oh, I’m a student, sorry _ , she imagines herself saying.  _ I’m just taking a break. I have finals. _

The thought is almost thrilling, in a sad and sorry way, feeling like she’s finally living the life she wanted to live, going to classes and talking to people and being on the wrong side of broke.

_ You chose to drop out of high school, and now you’re dreaming about going to college? You wouldn’t even like it. You would hate it there. You hate school. You have a whole beehive up your ass. _

This is really as exciting as it gets, going to the library to trip and take a nap. She really hopes Feli makes good use of his alone time in the apartment seeing as she truly isn’t— her head throbs. Every step is more and more numbing, her fingers curiously devoid of feeling.

_ This self pity is sickening, and not the good kind of sickening. Go take a nap. Look at the trees. Look at the buildings and the cars. Shut up. Enjoy your Vicodin, you little bitch. _

So she does, and the next five hours are a complete blur; she thinks she’s reading, or sleeping, or just staring outside, or massaging her neck, or pointedly avoiding eye contact with anyone who might see this gremlin sitting in the corner. The initial hit of euphoria isn’t too memorable, and the rest of the time spent fidgeting and fucking around even less so. Nobody talks to her or asks about anything. She wouldn’t be able to respond coherently, either.

Finally, when the fuzziness starts to fall away, she stands up, checking the time on her phone. Too late. Way, way, way too late. She’s too tired for this.

Walking out and walking home in the dark are all a complete blur. All she knows is that she spends at least five minutes trying to unlock the door, the key slipping out of her freezing hands too many times.

The kitchen light is on, but Feli’s door is closed and dark— he’s asleep. Her head won’t stop spinning. She flips off the light and stumbles into her room, flopping on the bed and falling far into quasi-unconsciousness without even peeling off her jacket, some part of her cursing herself for being such a lightweight, dissociating at the drop of a hat, some part of her underwater, surrounded by millions of tons of brackish, deep ocean and water, head spinning green with distance and nausea and mania. Everything is humming. When she finally falls asleep, it sucks her whole soul into that silence.

* * *

Chiara is granted a rude awakening when her phone rings, buzzing and flashing and blaring marimba in her hand, over and over and over like a nagging jackhammer into her brain. Her eyes are clenching shut, afternoon light stabbing everywhere— any legible thought is conspicuous in its absence.

Prying her eyes open, she’s simply greeted with a number. Probably a spam call.

She picks it up anyway. Sits up, presses the phone against her ear. Silence.

Feli bursts into her room— and her whole stomach turns, seeing his expression, the way his eyes are wide, eyebrows twisted, a primal, childish fear that makes her feel sick. He looks like— a kid, seeing the monster under the bed. He looks like he’s about to wet himself. He looks uncomfortably close to a combination of emotions she hasn’t felt in a long, long time: rejection, pain, hope, rage.

_ Hang up, _ he mouths, flailing his hands, thumbs down to an X to frantic back-and-forth,  _ hang up! _

Chiara hates herself, so she doesn’t.

“Hello?” a female voice says, snide. “Chiara, I hope?”

It takes a long moment to place it— “Mother?”

“About damn time. You know, I always ask God why He gave me such selfish children. Why haven’t you sent what I asked for?”

Chiara swallows, the sound of her heartbeat pumping through her head. Even now, years later, forming words is an uphill climb. Feli stares, slack-jawed and frozen. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I already said I wasn’t talking to you last year.”

In the doorway, Feli starts to shake his head vigorously, mouthing an endless stream of words she can’t make out. This is a horrible idea. She promised she wouldn’t give in and talk to the mother anymore. She has never openly agreed with Feli about something more. She doesn’t hang up.

The mother makes a wounded noise (fake, horrible, lying) and clears her throat. “I sent letters, and I called your ungrateful brother, even the old man—”

“His name is Feli,” Chiara interjects. “Your  _ son. _ ” As much as she can, she pushes back the quiver threatening to burst into her words, to fortify every syllable into something bulletproof and pain-deflecting. Feli clutches the door frame at the mention of his name, eyes huge.

Chiara clears her throat.  _ Be resolute. Be firm. Don’t take any of it. _

“And that’s my grandfather, actually. We’ve already made our boundaries, and you haven’t respected them. I’m changing my number. And I’m never sending you a thing. Fuck off.” 

The phone starts screaming in her hand: You miserable bitch! Useless and idiotic! Where’s my respect? Who do you think gave you her whole life? Just for you to waste all of it! You owe me! You owe me! You owe me! Crashing, shattering, screeching, crying, My daughter destroyed everything I gave her, You owe me, I told you, Send me the money—

Mutely, Chiara removes the phone from her ear and ends the call. Immediately, the number calls again— she turns off her phone. The room is silent.

“I,” Feli says, and he swallows and grips the door frame until his nails blanch, “I told you to hang up.”

“Well, sometimes you have to take a deep breath, clear your throat, and spit right in mommy’s face,” Chiara says. The laugh she tries to produce comes out merely as a quiet breath. Something tickles her face: a tear, and then a second one. A third. Feli opens and shuts his mouth several times.

So much silence. “I’m sorry,” she says eventually, the words sounding garbled and strange and ringing in her ears. “I’m just surprised, mostly.”

This seems to break the dam— Feli lunges forward, wraps her up in a hug, her neck sopping wet where he buries his face. He’s saying something under his breath, something she can’t quite catch. Her whole body aches. She slings an arm over his back in some awkward attempt to hug him back, sitting there in her clothes from yesterday, and they stay still for a long while. 

Chiara’s arm is starting to get numb. “Hey, get off,” she finally says. Feli remains clinging to her like a wet leaf, all feelings and soft and frail.

“Come on,” Chiara says, sighing. “Go think about your date or something. It’s no big deal.”

“Are you okay,” Feli blubbers, clinging even tighter. “I shouldn’t have let you keep talking, you shouldn’t ever have to hear her talk to you like that again. Chiara, I’m seriously so sorry, she doesn’t mean anything, you don’t have to feel bad,” and now he’s full-on crying again. She tries to suppress the sigh building up as much as possible.

“I was serious, it was just surprising.”

“But—”

“I just woke up. I was surprised. You know I don’t actually care that much.”

“I just thought… I mean, you were, you know. Crying?”

“Look, I said I was sleepy.” God, the excuses are getting worse and worse. “I never cried before. Sticks and stones blah blah blah. I don’t get anything from her being an asshole.”

Slowly, Feli peels himself off, slumping onto the bed. “I just can’t believe… I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t upset me  _ that  _ much anymore. I just hate—”

“I’m cutting you off before you say something really embarrassing,” Chiara interrupts, letting her voice get a little sharper, “and I hope you’re thankful. Anyways, get out of my room. And for the record, I’m not upset by anything they do, either, especially her.”

Feli wipes his eyes, frowns down at his lap. “Just don’t pick up the phone for them again, okay? We’ll… um, change numbers tomorrow.” His voice is quiet, meek. It pisses her off.

“You know you’re allowed to act against them,” she says. It’s impossible to restrain the spite from her voice now. “You’re allowed to do whatever you want. You fucking know that, don’t you?”

“I mean—”

“What. They don’t give a damn. What’s the father going to do, anyway, beat you with a rolling pin? Chase you around with his fucking belt? He doesn’t know where you live. And I’d fucking kill him first. I don’t give a damn, either. Now get out.”

Feli stands up, hesitates, stares at her with those wide eyes. Round, teary, shining— from the mother, but where hers are guilting, lying, his are open. Loving. There’s real care there, real emotions, nothing hollow or masked.  _ How could he possibly be their child? _ she thinks,  _ and how can he possibly be my brother? How in the world do we have the same DNA? _

“I love you, okay?” he says.

Chiara hesitates a long, long time before replying.

“Okay. Now get out.”

And then she’s alone. She immediately grabs her phone and blocks the number, seeing as it’s already called sixteen more times since, before turning it off again and rolling back into bed. What a fucking headache. What a stupid thing to deal with.

She wasn’t lying when she said she was over it— indeed, she doesn’t give a single fuck at this point. Dealing with the narcissists is an affair of the past, and they break through from time to time, but that’s been over for years. Unlike Feli and all his weaknesses, their feelings mean nothing to her. They’re not real feelings, really. The truth is, they might look real, feel real, sound real, but they’re not. Interacting with them isn’t remotely like interacting with any human being. Rather: they’re much closer to robots programmed to copy human emotions to input, seeking an output of your whole entire life, turning those “feelings” on and off with not an ounce of feeling. All of it is merely to extract endless worship and your entire life and soul from you. Time and time again, the evidence has slapped her in the face— there is no meaning in a conversation with a narcissist. Feli is feeling his very real feelings over a hollow suit of skin.

_ Oh, who are you kidding? You were crying, for god’s sake. _

_ I don’t even know why. I really was just surprised. That phase of my life is over. And she was right— I’m useless. A burden to my brother. A disappointment all around. Doesn’t justify her, but the truth hurts. I’m just weak about it. It doesn’t even matter, anyway. _

It’s already deep into the afternoon, the sun fierce and hot through her window, and Chiara knows she won’t be accomplishing a single thing for the rest of the week.  _ What, five days left? _ What a headache. Why is everything just a massive headache. She can’t stand much more of this game of How stupid can everything get? and she’s beyond relieved she won’t have to.

* * *

Life goes on, and T minus two starts off completely uneventful. Most of Chiara’s life now is just eating, thinking about meals to cook, and telling Feli what to get at the store. It’s as good as it gets— she makes fresh pasta for the first time in years, tricked-out midnight ramen with all the leftovers she can cram in, even some ragu that takes five hours on the stove. Mostly, she makes sure to eat all the stuff she likes and all the stuff Feli won’t touch. 

With each day, that dreadful euphoria hikes up a little, each step she takes is a little bit freer, and her nausea at her own thoughts spikes higher. 

With each day, her apprehension grows and her fear churns and her body aches more and more— getting up in the morning feels like she’s both a nurse and in a nursing home, helping her geriatric self haul out of bed.

Nothing much changes. That night, she throws together some leftover seafood in the freezer for cioppino, pouring in a generous glug of Merlot and tasting generous spoonfuls the whole time. Salty, biting, rich, fresh, plenty of parsley— not a horrible idea. The two of them eat in silence on her part and gentle but meaningless chatter on Feli’s. He starts on the dishes, and she scans the fridge, thinking, counting. What to use next? She’s craving dessert. Maybe a cake? The pantry tells her there’s some cocoa powder left.

Chocolate with buttercream it is. She brews up a bit of coffee.

“Cake?” Feli says, turning to her with a smile in his eyes. Chiara huffs, nods, pulls out her measuring cups.

Dry ingredients sifted out first— the cocoa smells divine, she thinks, the darkest, richest brown, surrounding her in a cloud of chocolate. Then the last of their buttermilk, adding oil and eggs, a splash of vanilla for that lovely, mild sweetness. The batter is thick and black. Coffee is last.

By the time she cuts out parchment lining for the cake pans, Feli’s done with the dishes and sits in the living room, checking his phone. By the time she pours the batter, scrapes the bowl, slides the pans into the oven, he’s calling someone.  _ It’s probably his boyfriend,  _ she thinks,  _ there’s an awful lot of laughing going on. _

All the more reason to avoid him right now. She takes out a couple sticks of butter and sets up a double boiler for melting chocolate and chops up a bar of bittersweet (never semisweet— she has dignity. She also eats a lot more of it than she probably should.) Onto the double boiler it goes, melting quickly, chunks and slivers dissolving bit by bit.

It’s all well and good, until snatches of Feli’s conversation float through into the kitchen, and Chiara barely catches the tail end of a soft, meek, “... it’s been a rough week.” The chocolate is starting to smooth out. She gives it another good stir.

Feli’s quiet for a long while, until: “Yeah, she actually resigned from her job. She was pretty upset. And then, well. You know.”

“Are you talking about me?” she yells. Silence on Feli’s part.

“Feli, seriously, are you talking about me to your—”

“I’m, um,” he says, sounding more than a little sheepish. “I’m actually talking to Grandpa right now? Give me a second, okay?”

Chiara gives her chocolate one final, rash stir that flings it dangerously close to the edge of the bowl, taking it off the heat and bursting into the living room. This is absolutely the last thing she needs, because  _ I’ll never hear the end of it from Roberto now, are you kidding? _

Feli shoots her a wobbling smile, the picture of innocence. “Hey! Chiara’s here! Want me to turn on speaker?” Her grandfather’s voice is garbled and distant, and she doesn’t have a single inclination of hearing it right now.

“I’m fine,” Chiara hisses, trying to keep her voice quiet. “but not. Another.  _ Word _ about me.”

“Okay!” Feli chirps, and gets right back to Roberto, switching to a confused (and confusing) tirade about a coworker’s new dog. Chiara leans against the wall and watches him for what feels like hours, and true to his word he doesn’t say a thing about her. Mostly, he rambles about acquaintances, people he kind of knows but not really, throwing in a casual mention of that boyfriend every once in a while.

_ So he told Roberto before me. I see how it is. _

To be fair, it’s definitely a nightmare for Feli to live with the embodiment of repression, and maybe she’s alright that he’s getting his thoughts out there. She may also feel too drained to finish the frosting right now. Deep breaths. Think about chocolate. Think about ca— 

“Chiara!” Feli says, beaming. “Chiara, Grandpa wants to talk to you, okay? Want me to work on that frosting?”

She really can’t stop the aggrieved sigh that comes out this time. Truly, it’s the last thing she wants to do, and she’s already entirely too tired for any of Roberto’s shenanigans, but Feli has that expression on his face that hints at both a raging desire to make frosting so he can eat it and a glimmering hope she’ll be normal for once. Chiara takes the phone.

“Chiara!” Roberto booms, his voice full even through crunchy phone speakers. Feli scampers past her into the kitchen. With another sigh, Chiara flops onto the couch, her throat dry.

“Hi,” she says.  _ I probably, definitely sound like such an emo teenager. Some things never change. _ “What is it?”

“Oh, just checking in,” Roberto says, chuckling. “Feli gave me all the news. I wanted to talk to you, too.”

The electric mixer starts up in the kitchen. Chiara takes a deep, painful breath. “Well, it’s all fine.”

“I hope so! I do, I hope you’re feeling alright with everything that happened?”

“It’s fine,” and there’s more bite to her words this time, emphasis on  _ fine.  _ She finds herself running her fingers through the nape of her hair, tugging and combing, tugging and combing. Roberto just laughs.

“Good! It’s too bad, but life goes on. I’m sorry about your mother calling, by the way.”

“The mother,” Chiara says, “doesn’t matter to me. I shouldn’t have picked it up, but I don’t care much for her. At all. So it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Well, I know that. But that doesn’t mean it can’t hurt, I guess?”

“No.”  _ This is why I can’t handle this right now. This is why I shouldn’t be on the phone with him. I should probably respond normally, but my mouth is a bitch. I  _ am _ the bitch. _

“Well—”

The words keep coming. Chiara feels herself drift further and further out of her own body, stinging venom turning cold and distant in her mouth. “What’d Feli tell you, that I bawled like a baby when she called me names? That I was just  _ devastated _ about my poor, poor mother, trying to fix her delusions, whatever you think I’m trying to do? And whatever psychoanalysis you’re trying to pull on me?”

A long pause, then, gently: “I just care, Chiara, and I’m just asking.”

“Well, I wasn’t.”

Pause, again. The sound of the mixer slows, stops, Feli poking his head into the room with that humiliating shock on his face.

“What?” she barks. Feli keeps staring, his face dropping.  _ Fuck fuck fuck. _ Roberto is saying something on the other side of the line. She couldn’t care less. What a headache. What a fucking headache.

“You know, I really don’t care,” she says, her voice cracking slightly, and she’s not sure if it’s to Feli, looking small and scared, or to Roberto, now silent, his presence looming over her as if he’s in the room. 

Everything in her head is roiling. What was her point? Why is she so angry? What is she doing? Why is she so obsessed with not caring? She keeps talking.

“I didn’t ask, and it doesn’t even matter to me, because I don’t care, and I’m never going to care,” and here her voice gets loud, bordering a shout, “because I’m not obsessed with sucking my parents’ dicks and thanking them for it. I’m not crying over  _ shit. _ I don’t care. Stop bothering me. I. Don’t. Care. Shut everything the fuck up. Bye.”

She hangs up the call, throwing Feli’s phone on the floor, and gets up.

Feli’s face: shock. Hurt. Shame. Fear. Maybe a little bit of anger, buried and mixed up into everything else. The mask is gone, and underneath, his eyebrows fall, his mouth sets, straining. Tired.

_ I want to say I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that about you. I did mean it. I didn’t. _

Chiara desperately, desperately wants to throw up. Instead, she runs back to her room, door slamming, and crawls under the bed, and lies on her back like a corpse with her hands covering her mouth so she can scream to herself, and rage crawls all over her like a million ants, bulging with heavy hate.

Everything is just full of hate.  _ Mostly, I hate myself. I hate myself, so much. I’m the worst excuse for a human being on this stupid fucking planet. All I do is hurt people. All I do is say the most horrible shit. All I do is come up with ways to torture Feli and Roberto and anyone who has the misfortune of being in my vicinity. I can’t even bring myself to care enough to not do it. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to cope. Every time I open my mouth I force myself deeper. I haven’t done anything beyond causing pain. I am in pain. I am just pain in and of itself. I can’t wait to kill myself. _

_ I can’t wait to kill myself. _

Chiara retches, the dust all around her making her sick and dizzy, but nothing comes out. The endless barrage of thoughts about the exact way Feli’s face fell with every word, the gentleness of Roberto’s voice, her own burst of horrible, everything rolls up into that throbbing hate deep in her chest.

_ I’ll be doing everyone a favor. I really will. I can’t do this anymore. _

She has no idea how long she spends under the bed— in the moment, it feels like a dusty, cold eternity of mental lambasting, a never-ending flood of panic and frustration itching and worming at her insides.

There isn’t a real way out of it. Mostly, she thinks about every other angry outburst, every implosion of fury scattering shrapnel into everyone around her. The instinct to destroy is beyond a habit— it’s her way of being. It’s her reflex. It’s 2+2=4. There is no other way for her body to do things, regardless of trying and doing, which is fine. She can’t care enough about any of it to fix it. It’s the way she is.

_ That makes it sound so lazy. To kill yourself because you can’t look yourself in the face? _

_ That’s enough. _

No more of this. A tear tracks down her temple, hot and sticky when she wipes her eyes. Why is this so hard?


	3. foggy lullaby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Well there's so many sinking now  
> You've got to keep thinking  
> You can make it through these waves  
> Acid, booze, and ass  
> Needles, guns, and grass  
> Lots of laughs..."  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["Blue"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w5782PQO5is)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs: this chapter is probably the most explicit in terms of the subject of committing suicide, so if it's getting uncomfortable skip down to the short list of italicized things. tbh this is a pretty difficult chapters for the characters in general. there's also some heavy dissociation/mental fog. tread carefully as always, I am here to answer questions!
> 
> also, there is a lot of cooking and eating in this chapter, along with a whole monologue about panzanella (italian tomato/bread salad); hopefully that's a relief with all the other stuff going on. if not feel free to skim as much as you'd like lol. the food scenes are meant to be enjoyed, though, so enjoy them! (lord knows the rest of it isn't very enjoyable... im sorry chiara) tell me if you're hungry bc I sure am
> 
> please enjoy :)

Chiara finally musters up the energy to crawl out from under her bed several hours later, when her whole body is too stiff to feel anything and the comfort of being smothered quickly suffocates. Her phone says it’s a little past midnight— her mirror says she should brush all the dust out of her hair and change clothes. The house is quiet. Her throat is sore.

_ From screaming. Doesn’t that remind you of something? _

She goes and brushes her teeth and washes her face, too. Hands and arms scrubbed with soap. Moisturizer slapped on her face. Deep breaths.

Feli’s door is shut and the kitchen light is on, and she thanks the powers that be that he’s asleep, because technically it’s the day after tomorrow and she’d love it if he never had to see her again. Everything is fine. She can play the long game. She can avoid everything. She can stay in her room until his overtime shift and then she can get to work.

Everything’s fine, until she remembers her cake—  _ Shit! Did he even finish making the frosting? God, I shouldn’t have done any of that. I missed out on my fucking cake. Did it burn? Is it there? _ The oven is empty, and everything is clean and tucked away. Her heartbeat speeds up.

Then, in the fridge: a beautifully tall chocolate cake, chocolate buttercream in big, swooping swirls across the top and sides, a big slice cut, all of it sprinkled with chocolate curls. Instantly, her mouth waters, and she slides the cake out onto the counter without even thinking.  _ He cut me a slice. He didn’t even have any. I don’t deserve to be eating any of this. _

She grabs a plate and a fork anyway. Guilt can wait. She  _ did  _ just have a mental breakdown of her own creation, because mental illness now, cake later, but it’s later now. It’s cake time.

The gentle smell of chocolate wafts around her as she pulls out the slice. The cross-section is gorgeous— the cake fluffy and soft, buttercream thick in the middle, and the first bite is just as heavenly. It’s not too sweet, so the depth of the chocolate and cocoa really shines through— on her tongue, it’s rich and full, and the frosting is appropriately decadent. She gulps it down like cold juice on a hot day, and it’s creamy but refreshing, filling but light in her mouth. There is truly no greater pleasure than a chocolate cake after too many tears. The rest of the slice is gone in no time.

She hesitates, stares at the cake. One more day, then it’s the day, and this will all be over.

So she cuts herself another slice. Adds a sliver, just a little more, then another, because fuck it. It’s a lot of cake. It disappears just as fast. And every bite she takes, every time she chews and swallows, every moment where there’s food in her mouth— she feels good. She feels normal. She feels that word she doesn’t dare think, the one that starts with an H.

Happy.

At this point, she’s eaten over a quarter of a whole chocolate cake, which is more than just a little difficult to look in the face.  _ It feels good, but it’s time to stop. Cut up the rest of it for Feli. Go to bed. _

It looks so delicious. She was so happy. She was on top of the world. She was normal.  _ And cake doesn’t fix your problems. You just crawled under your bed and screamed. You just fired yourself from a job. You dropped out of school. You can scream and hurt and cook and that’s it. Be. Real. _

Back into the fridge it goes, the rest of it neatly portioned; she drops her plate and utensils in the sink. And she tries not to think about eating any more cake.

* * *

It’s the day.

She wakes up pretty early in the morning, right as Feli shuts the front door on his way out. She didn’t see him at all yesterday— he knocked on her door a couple times and even asked if she wanted dinner, but even he can tell she doesn’t want to be bothered. What a gift. That heady rush of euphoria comes flooding back all over again.

_Time to get ready,_ she thinks, and for once the thought brings nothing but a fiery joy. Her back and hips and knees don’t hurt. Everything feels _alright._ Everything is good. What a feeling to be reckoned with.

First, she showers and changes and takes care of her business, spending extra time on her makeup, daring to start singing to herself as she dries her hair. She zips up her nicest cocktail dress, and makes the appropriate faces at herself in the mirror. Pout, pose. Smile, pose. She looks nice. She looks good. She looks pretty.

_ I refuse to die looking like complete shit. Bloomingdale’s made me pay way too much for this dress and I’m going to fucking milk it for all it’s worth. _

To the kitchen, next, to have a slice of chocolate cake for breakfast. Feli has eaten a good amount, but there’s still a bit less than half left. Digging in doesn’t bring any of that shame from before— actually, it just feels nice. It feels nice to sit in this sunny apartment, and it feels great to eat some cake. 

_ Really, it’s the best last meal I could ask for. _

She cleans up everything she can. Then, she goes back to her room.

It’s about 10 o’clock, which is perfect. She tidies everything and opens up the closet. It’s not too much work, just moving all the stuff aside so she can sit comfortably. She digs around for the note she’s prepared and sets it up on the nightstand in direct view of the door. Next, taking out her pills, burner, knife, and tape, setting them up inside the closet, then turning on the light and getting in.

First is the tape. Standing up, she cuts up big strips for sealing up the edges of the door, laying down everything, covering the cracks, and soon the door is completely blocked up. Next, the pills: she decides on crushing and snorting all of it. First the opioids, for something quick, then taking all of the Restoril so she’ll get sleepy on time, then the maybe-fentanyl as a parting shot. Then she can turn on the burner and burn up the rest of her life in that deep, euphoric sleep. She’s doing good. She’s doing great. She feels a little sick, but it’ll be done soon. She feels good.

She sits down— the wall is flat against her back, and her folded legs brush the folding door. Frankly, it feels a little more claustrophobic than she remembers, but it doesn’t feel like too much for her to handle. Deep breaths. Doing good so far.

_ I’m doing me a favor,  _ she thinks,  _ I’m doing everything a favor. I’m so glad. It will all be over. None of them will ever have to deal with my shit again. It’s going to be the happiest funeral of the year. It’s going to be the loneliest. I’m ready.  _

With her knife, the perc and Vicodin crush up easily on the old  _ Introduction to Economics  _ textbook from the box next to her, along with the Restoril (which she piles up separately) and the Subsys. She wipes the knife with her finger, swabs it in her nose. She feels good. It’s alright. Deep breaths. Focus on the present. The dust looks like cake flour.

She’s rolling up a slip of paper when Feli’s ringtone starts blasting from her phone in her back pocket— she drops the paper, fumbles to turn it off, she swears Do Not Disturb was on— 

_ Thirty-two  _ missed calls. A litany of texts.

This is stupid. It doesn’t matter. Maybe he’s just doing something stupid, or a prank, put the phone down, turn it off, take the fucking Restoril and light the burner, a million thoughts overwhelm her. She unlocks her phone to read the notifications anyway.

Scrolling, scrolling, past the uncontrollable flood of  _ Chiara pick up the phone right now!!!,  _ and then, at the very beginning:

_ grandpa just had a stroke. it’s bad. please call me back now _ _  
_ _ call me please _

_ Chiara _ _  
_ _ please call me _ _  
_ _ he’s currently unresponsive in a coma _ _  
_ _ please call me back _ _  
_ _ i love you _ _  
_ _ i’m so scared _

Her phone buzzes, and the chat jumps down to the new message:

_ i’ll be home in a minute, walking up now _

Suddenly, she can’t breathe. The textbook slides out of her lap, months and months of hoarding and counting wasted in an instant as it all sprays out everywhere, dusting the box to her side like powdered sugar on cookies. Her head is completely empty for once in her fucking life.

Seconds pass, though they feel like eons. And then— 

It all hits her in a second, like the flash of white before the mushroom cloud, unbridled, pure panic, bubbling up through her entire body, trapped in this closet with Feli mere minutes from coming in and seeing everything. 

_ I can’t let him— see this, see me like this, find me, talk to me, I can’t let him—  _

Something explodes deep inside her chest. She scrambles up, hacking blindly at the duct tape until it feels like it’s going to give, and then she shoves, and then— 

_ I didn’t do it. I couldn’t do it. He was supposed to get home late. I was supposed to be long dead. I was too fucking weak to do it. I can’t do it again at this point. Everything is going to change. I can’t believe myself. _

The door gives, and she gets violently pinched as it folds on her, thrashing, kicking away her precious charcoal burner, scrabbling to get out and put away her note and shut the closet and try to look normal and presentable and not suicide-ready and a billion other thoughts churning and churning up in her brain shooting through her heart with bullets of terror, shaking shaking shaking, so close and so far away from all of it.

_ And Roberto’s going to die. Oh god, he’s probably already dead. And the last time we spoke—  _

She quickly checks over her room and the apartment one last time, some unbearable paranoia making her throw open every drawer in case what’s inside somehow incriminates her, and then the door starts to fumble, the sound of a key going in, so she rushes over to unlock and open it.

The door opens. Feli’s there, the first time she’s seen him since the other day, red-faced. Crying. He doesn’t move to hug or touch her, just presses his palms to his eyes. They go inside. They sit on the couch. Silence.

Feli opens his mouth to speak, Chiara opens her mouth like she’s mirroring him, though it’s evident neither of them have anything to say. The air in the apartment suffocates her— where before it seemed fresh and full and warm, now it’s heavy and sticky and she wishes they had a functioning AC unit and Feli starts to weep in earnest— she doesn’t know what to do. She stands up, goes to the fridge. Chocolate cake on a plate with a fork.  _ I want this to be over. I don’t know why this is happening. _ Bring the cake out to him, sits and watches him eat it, crying all over that cake and probably making it unbearably soggy and salty, and her head throbs.

_ This is really happening. _

_ I can’t stop failing, huh? _

_ When will it all stop? _

_ I can’t— do anything, really. It just happens. It happens, and then I’m here. I fucking hate that. _

“Thanks,” Feli finally says, his voice hoarse and full of tears. He stabs the last piece, chews, swallows, big tears rolling down his cheeks.

Chiara doesn’t respond.  _ Why can’t I cry over it too. I wonder. _

_ Why am I such a heartless bitch. _

Feli takes a deep breath, putting down the plate and flopping back. Staring up at the ceiling, the tears trickle down his temples— Chiara feels the oddest deja vu to a billion other moments. He doesn’t say anything for what feels like a long, long time.

Finally: “So they told me— they think he’s going to get better, but.” A deep, desperate breath, one Chiara finds herself mirroring.

“Well, he’s stable right now,” Feli says. “But he already had all those cardiovascular problems. So they think he’ll make it out alive, but, um.” His tears get to flowing again. His voice is so strange, she thinks, distant and choked up and all strained. His eyes don’t move from the ceiling. She has half a mind to glance up there herself, just to see what’s so engrossing about it all.

For the first time, she speaks, because, well, “What are we doing about it?”

The sigh that comes out of Feli could mirror one of her own. “Well, I haven’t gotten all the billing figured out. But his insurance covers a decent amount, his savings cover a bit, but. It’s just not enough. So I have to use my money, and I think—”

_ Oh, god. Does he mean—? _

“I think,” Feli says. “Of course we’re going over there.”

_ Of course? _

“But I think we might have to stay in Newport for a while. And rent out this place online.”

_ No. No, he has to be kidding. He’s fucking kidding. _ Chiara opens her mouth, instant and instinctive, ready to spit back, because  _ what?  _ She can’t  _ move to Oregon _ to watch Roberto with Feli, for an indefinite amount of time. She can’t do whatever Feli’s expecting from her— she can’t. And this screws over every plan and every single thing she’s ever— 

_ What plans? Plans to kill yourself? Plans to live in this shitty apartment with your brother? You have nothing. _

Feli leans forward, puts his head into his hands. “I don’t think we have a choice. We really need the money. We can stay at the Quill, or someone’s house, I’m not sure yet. But we can’t keep living in Richmond for now. And we need to take care of him after he’s discharged. I can work at the docks or something, and it’s a lot cheaper in Newport, not like my job now pays much, and we can have a few months there until he gets better—”

Chiara clears her throat. “Wait, the Quill— you mean the—”

“Bed and breakfast, yeah.”

_ Alright, kind of a stupid name.  _ “But are you sure all this stuff is…”

“Necessary? Completely.” His voice wavers, but it’s low, cold. Chiara suddenly feels grateful she can’t see his face.

“I have to look at all the numbers. But we need to fly out as soon as possible.”

She opens her mouth to object again, but it’s clear:  _ He’s right. I’m repulsive. I’m disgusting, disgusting for prioritizing my selfish fucking suicide over this. I should be crying. I should be losing it. I should be scared. I should feel something and anything beyond plain fucking nothing. I should be comforting him. I should be using all the money I have to help out. _

_ But he isn’t asking any of that from me, even, just for us to move there. Just for me to uproot my shadow of a life into another shadow of a life. And I can’t even— let that lie, let that breathe in peace. _

_ I can’t even pull myself out of that repulsive state. _

_ I can’t even—  _

“Okay,” she says.

“I need a nap,” Feli says, and looks up and grins tearfully at her, gentle mirth in his eyes. “And it’s only eleven.”

“Okay,” she says again, softer. “Do it.”

He sighs again, that same awful sigh sounding like it came right out of her head. “I have to text a few friends first. See if anyone wants their commute a little shorter, to just… Airbnb in my house for a little. Secretly. I can’t back out of the lease right now, I can’t… oh, god.” She can’t tell if the sound he makes is laughing or crying.

Instinctively, Chiara wants to ask if it’s even worth the hassle— he’s also mid-mental breakdown, so she refrains. Truth be told, she’s not concerned about this aspect of it all. It’s difficult, sure, to figure it out. But he’ll figure it out. He always does, to tell the truth, and he’s always had it harder, but he’s always made it work better than anyone she knows. That’s Feli. Really, if she was as proportionally successful, she’d be a millionaire.

She can’t do anything right now. She’s been in her own head. She’s been gripped with nothing but self-interest. But he’s so, so much stronger, really, he lives with her and hasn’t killed himself first, he’s had nothing but success from his hard work.

(Right now, though, he’s crying, and she’s sitting here, and there’s only one thing she can think of to help at all.)

“I’m going grocery shopping,” she says shortly, standing up.

Feli lifts his head, stares at her, confusion and incredulity splayed out in his eyes. “You’re what?”

“Shopping. Requests?”

Still gaping, he looks her up and down for a while. “Um. No?”

“Okay. Don’t eat lunch. I’m making dinner early.”

And then she leaves him on the couch, grabs her things, and walks out the door. He doesn’t say another word the whole time, just staring at her.

_ Come on, _ she thinks,  _ I’m doing you a favor. Come on now. _

Maybe this is a little too nice for her. Maybe it’s her only way of making up for not being nice enough. It’s probably both.

* * *

The walk to the store and the walk back, now laden down with groceries, is a silent and strange one for her— it’s not like she’s  _ panicked, _ or  _ scared, _ or any of those feelings from Feli or from earlier in the morning, and it’s not like she’s genuinely worried about the future. She just thinks about adding a squeeze of lemon, or a dash of paprika, her head an orderly list of thoughts, her chest feeling calm.

Actually, it’s not like she feels much of anything. Actually, for once in her life, huge floods of manic and depressive emotions aren’t high-tiding through every system in her body.

Actually, she feels dead.

Chiara enters the apartment and unloads all her groceries and erases the thought from her mind. It’s silent and empty.  _ Feli’s probably taking that nap. He can wake up for dinner. _

First, potatoes— she washes and peels the three Yukons left in the pantry, cutting them into two-bite chunks and soaking them in a bowl. Next is a big pot of water set to boil, and a saucepan where she dumps in the little bit of bacon fat and beef drippings they have in the fridge, along with a heavy pinch of rosemary. Finely mince a few cloves of garlic and grind out a teaspoon or two of black pepper, and it all goes into the pan on medium heat. Already, it smells delicious, and when the garlic starts to blonde and the pepper sizzles, the smell wafts up in a wave of fragrant and hot, savory and delicious.

_ This smell never gets old. So good, every time. _

The infused drippings go into a big bowl, the garlic and rosemary strained out and put aside, right as the water starts to boil. Chiara cracks her neck, glances over everything. In go the potatoes, a healthy amount of salt, a bit of baking powder, all stirred up and turned down to medium-low. 

It’s time to get started on panzanella. She’s taken the opportunity to put together all her favorite varieties: pearl tomatoes halved, Roma, Brandywine, red and yellow heirlooms all diced up and salted, all the juice straining into a bowl under the colander she sets them in. Then, she cubes the quarter-loaf of ciabatta in the pantry, tosses it all in olive oil, and slides it into the oven.

British-style roasted potatoes aren’t a childhood memory, and neither is the steak she’s planning on searing, but panzanella— Tuscan bread-and-tomato salad, all fresh, flavorful tomatoes, tossed with dry bread cubes and a vinaigrette that’s so full and deep you can’t help licking your lips after every bite— she’s been eating her whole life, long before capital-F food came into the picture. Truthfully, there is no better way to have tomatoes in a salad or mixed up in anything. There’s nothing that tastes quite so tomato-y, nothing as fulfilling as toasted bread (or stale, if you’re really struggling) mopping up liquid, the juicy freshness of tomatoes amplified in your mouth, each bite a wonderful burst of it all. Just the smell of freshly cut tomatoes makes her hungry.

The potatoes are done, now, so she drains them and rinses out the pot. Into the big bowl they go, and she tosses them with that rich, rosemary-tinted oil until they soften and coat each other in a slurry. The smell is absolutely mouthwatering. Honestly, she has to cut back the temptation to just eat them right at this moment. Onto a baking sheet they go, spread evenly, and she switches out the bread for the potatoes in the oven (and cranks it up blistering hot).

_ Potatoes are done, what’s next…  _ back to panzanella. She chops up: more garlic, shallots, tosses them into the bowl of tomato juices with a smidge of Dijon and a generous splash of red wine vinegar. Then, a slow and steady drizzle of olive oil, giving it a good whisk until her arm is sore, everything is emulsified, and the whisk leaves a trail on the bottom of the bowl. The dressing itself is muted red, smelling savory, sweet, so good she has to dip in a finger to taste. Then again, and again, until she finds herself sucking on her whole finger— for science.

In goes the bread and tomatoes and a big handful of fresh basil, and she mixes it all up and leaves it to rest. And that’s it— panzanella.

She puts the steaks on a rack in the fridge to dry out a bit. Then she washes her hands and goes to check on Feli. Standing up for so long after days of inactivity means her knees and ankles ache like crazy as she walks over to his room, but it’s not  _ that  _ bad, truthfully . The thought of the upcoming meal is enough to dispel the pain.

When she cracks open the door to take a peek, he’s asleep, as expected.  _ He sleeps so weird, _ she thinks.  _ Is that a weird thing to think about your brother? _

To be fair, he does sleep pretty weird: all tucked in, as if he’s trying to shrink down as skinny and small as possible and become a stubby little pencil, on his stomach with his arms around his pillow, lying perfectly straight with his ankles crossed. She can see them under the thin sheet.

Then she feels weird for watching her brother sleep. Then she feels weird for making observations on how her brother sleeps. Then she goes to sit on the couch and stare at the ceiling.

Like her brother. Like Feli.

They  _ are _ twins— fraternal twins, but twins— they  _ should  _ be similar. They have the same parents. They were born within ten minutes of each other (Chiara first, of course.) They grew up in the same shitty house. They live in the same house now, they cook the same food. He is her only friend. She doesn’t know if she counts as one of his. 

But they’re really not similar. At all. Not even the parents are a similarity. Actually, they  _ liked  _ Chiara, a long, long time ago, when she was furiously shy and painfully sheltered (as if anything’s changed— but back then she was impossible.) They liked her. They tacked up her tests and grades. They took her to church three times a week, and she liked it right back. And they screamed at Feli, took his things away, scapegoated him, held his life hostage, but he was always better, because that’s Feli. Of course, her failing school and getting involved with men changed things, but at the end of the day it was always: Chiara, then Feli.

Chiara, then Feli. She could vomit.

She thinks about Roberto, seeing him once a year for a few minutes each time back in those days, tall and glowing. She thinks about the mother, spraying her perfume, ironing skirts. The father, drizzling wine into a hissing skillet, polishing his shoes. She thinks about a lot of things. She thinks about how long she’s going to have to bake those steaks. She thinks about the white powder blanketing the inside of her closet, snowy, gentle. She thinks about how dead her heart feels.

Then she gets up, because she has peppercorns to crack and potatoes to toss.


	4. breadth of extremities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You know it never has been easy  
> Whether you do or you do not resign--  
> Whether you travel the breadth of extremities  
> Or stick to some straighter line."  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["Hejira"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5AfPR_B8s-A)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs: not much for this chapter; some offhanded suicidality, but it's nothing like previous chapters. a bit of a shorter, slower chapter, but worry not it will pick up like crazy next chapter! (anyone excited for fem!spain and some other friends?)
> 
> anyways I will probably update quite soon, please enjoy :)

The next morning, after a hearty meal that sent both of them straight to bed, Chiara finds herself awake before 9 for the first time in a long time. Every surge and shallow of emotion from yesterday seems to have all melted into her sleep— not that there was much to begin with for most of it, but now it’s really gone, and that dreadful distance is a million miles wider.

She can’t deny, though, how good it feels— to wake up with an empty head, to focus instead on toasting up some leftover potatoes. Breakfast is looking good: the panzanella is all gone, but there’s still a cut of steak they never got to and a couple scoops of potatoes. Maybe she can just live Britishly for a morning and have steak and potatoes as a full meal. Under normal circumstances, she’d be appalled, but it’s becoming apparent nothing has been normal for a long time, maybe ever, so she heats up her still-crispy potatoes and steak au poivre and gets to work.

The potatoes are delicious, naturally. Garlicky, fragrant with rosemary and parsley and a bit of thyme, just how she likes them, with a delectable crunchy crust. The steak isn’t too bad either— the peppercorns are hot and the meat is juicy, rather on the rare side, and that’s just how she likes it.

_Steak and potatoes for breakfast. I can’t even muster up enough self-hatred to take myself down a peg._

Footsteps behind her— she turns to see Feli making his way into the living room, wearing an old pair of soccer shorts and a henley, laptop under his arm and bags under his eyes.

“Hey,” he says. “You’re up early.”

“You sound tired,” Chiara replies. He does. Every word lags a little behind, every exclamation point replaced with a slow ellipsis.

“Well…” There it is.

“Well,” he says, “I got the situation with the apartment figured out. For now. Talked to some old friends, um, and I think it’s all settled.”

He plops onto the couch, leaning back and popping open his laptop. Chiara takes a bite of steak and raises her eyebrows.

“The sketchy ones?”

A long pause. “... Um, no.”

 _I’ll take that as a yes._ “So what are we, you know. Doing?”

Feli frowns, squinting at the screen and rubbing his temples. “In the next few days? Plane tickets, trying to figure out transportation… and we have to start packing up our stuff.”

He pauses, squints a little bit harder, clicks on something and starts typing. “Oh, and… hmm. Wait.”

Chiara gathers the crunchy bits left over on her plate into a pile, trying to get it all on her fork. Feli keeps talking.

“I made some calls, and some of Grandpa’s staff contacted me back… I’m really scared for Grandpa. I want to see him. But they need help, since he’s gone, and the hospital is 45 minutes away? I’ll work there, of course, if they need it, just trying to figure out… Maybe I can hitch a ride… Um, you’d be staying with a friend of his, apparently he doesn’t stay much at his house in the summer…” He trails off, still staring at the laptop, mouth slightly open as he pauses to type something.

_He’s not even breaching the possibility of me ever working—_

_He knows you’d fail any job you got and it’d be a waste of time. Might as well watch an old man in a coma around the clock._

“I’d have to pay for gas— how much is that… And you can take care of Grandpa from pretty close by…”

As he drifts off, leaning closer to the screen with that same expression, Chiara has a sudden recollection of that last time she spoke to Roberto again, remembers anger screaming, frustration and fear all in a horrible echo of _I don’t care. Stop bothering me. I. Don’t. Care._ Her stomach turns at the thought.

It’s an emotion, kind of, at last. Chiara hates it with every bit of herself.

She finishes her crumbs, stands and goes to wash her plate and fork in the sink unnecessarily loudly. Then she goes back to her room.

_I have to “start packing up my stuff”, that’s what he said. I have to pick everything up. I have to—_

She hasn’t touched her closet since bursting out— when she went to bed last night, she turned away from it almost on instinct, like it was a bright light and she needed the pitch black to fall asleep. Even looking at it now sets off a current of anxiety, small but stinging nonetheless. She decides to clean up the rest of her room first.

There isn’t much, not really. Most of her things are in the closet. All the papers and little things can be thrown out, honestly, and she has no intent of bringing most or any of it along with her. Ever since she and Feli moved in together, she’s never really collected much detritus, and neither of them are particularly attached to any physical thing in particular. Mainly, the issue is all the books piling up everywhere— but if they’re just renting it out for a bit, it doesn’t seem like a problem. All she really needs is her toiletries, clothes, and phone, all easily replaceable, so she might as well use this as a chance to deep clean. 

The closet is a different story. It takes ten minutes of sitting on the bed and staring at it to even muster up the will to stand.

_Wow, this is hilarious. I’m trying to come out of the closet, but I’m trying to get in the closet, but I can’t get myself to do either. I’m hilarious._

_Actually, my entire life is a joke._

Gingerly, she opens it up. Everything inside is as she remembers. There are no horrific closet ghost manifestations waiting to consume her life. It’s just the closet— clothes, boxes, and the stuff she was going to kill herself with. Deep breaths.

The scattered, crushed-up pills are the first order of business. Gingerly, she sweeps it all up in her hands, dropping any of the stuff on the floor into that cardboard box from high school. In goes the charcoal burner as well. Next, she closes and seals it, cutting strips of duct tape and wrapping them around five Restoril, two Vicodin, a perc, a maybe-Subsys, a charcoal burner, half of her assignments from junior and senior year, a few old class pictures, a pressed flower, and probably a billion other knick-knacks she can’t remember, all tucked into cardboard and tape.

 _Done._ Quiet relief bubbles to the surface— it’s gone. She doesn’t have to see it again.

_I can’t believe that makes me relieved. I still—_

_(Want to kill myself. I just—)_

_I just don’t want to see that anymore._

She hauls the whole box to the door, out of sight. Out of mind. Time for the rest of the closet.

There’s not much in there either, to be frank. She doesn’t exactly have the money or time for an enormous wardrobe, but she’s proud of the clothes she does have, the way she looks in public— there’s nothing like a tailored blazer to make the rest of your outfit look well-adjusted and put-together. In total there’s a few pairs of shoes, blouses and trousers and skirts and jackets and dresses, a modest jewelry collection. It’s enough to fill a suitcase on the bigger side. She counts all of it, folds and sorts and lays it all out on her bed.

_So much of this is just stolen from the mother. More than I thought—_

Well, what is she supposed to do about it, throw it all out? _Really, I should just have stolen all her clothes and sold the ones I didn’t like as much. I really should have. Maybe we wouldn’t be this broke._

_I’m happy. I’m happy I stole these. They make me happy. And I’m bringing all of it._

Chiara stares at herself in her mirror, wearing the mother’s clothes right now— a loose, burgundy blouse that’s on the butch side, black slacks, little green earrings. She looks good. She feels nothing-everything. Her gut is still churning, but her head is empty, actually, still, cold, devoid of a single feeling or want or need.

 _I feel dead_ enters her head again.

_Did I die in there?_

_Why am I still living?_

She hauls out her old suitcase, packs her things in silence. She doesn’t think anything.

* * *

The next few days pass in a foggy flurry, Feli making nonstop phone calls and crunching numbers, Chiara cleaning out the apartment and packing away their things and cooking all their food. They don’t talk much, only when he needs some document or she’s asking him what to do with this or that. She’s alright with that— alright with a lot of things. Her thoughts remain quiet and bland. Mostly, everything feels cold, mechanical, humdrum.

Nothing much changes. Time passes. It’s the day.

She wakes up as early as she can, sunrise stabbing into her eyes as she crawls out of bed and changes. Saying goodbye to the apartment is strange— seeing their two big suitcases by the door is strange— sitting in her stripped-down room is strange. She’s already checked over everything to make sure there’s nothing left over, their apartment now a husk of bare mattresses and wiped-down furniture. Feli called a taxi a couple minutes ago.

_God, I hope his “friends” don’t turn this place into some kind of drug den. I’d like to have a place to come back to after all of this. If there even is a place._

_You sound ridiculous, you know that? When even_ is _after, anyways? Pretty presumptuous to say._

_You’ll probably end up dying first._

She stands up, stretching, closes the closet and turns off the light. Then she leaves and shuts the door behind her. There is no last look.

In the living room, Feli’s on the couch, frowning down at his phone and typing furiously. His legs are tucked in, body curled up. Fetal. Small. He doesn’t seem to see her. She doesn’t move or say anything, either.

Then he puts the phone to his ear, silent, saying nothing for a good fifteen seconds. 

The expression on his face— agonizing. Chiara clutches the insides of her pockets, feels the tight spring of tension, then:

“I’m sorry, I… I’m just not in the space for it right now. It’s not fair to you. It just isn’t. It’s been so hard lately— no, I know, but it’s—” He stops, voice cracking, listening.

He sounds so sad. He sounds heartbroken. He sounds like his whole self is falling apart, which it probably is.

“I never want to treat you like that,” he says. “That’s why. I just don’t know when I’ll be back, and I’ll be busy working to help them out, I have to look after my sister, because she needs all the help she can get to look after him, and I feel— I just feel. A lot. I feel sorry. And I don’t want to drag you down anymore.”

Tired, worn, pained. He closes his eyes, curling in further on himself. Chiara feels her heart clench up too. 

“Don’t… it’s okay, I really don’t… um. God, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” A long pause. “Look, I’ll text you when I get on the plane— I’ll, um. Okay. Bye.” He hangs up, drops his phone, and covers his eyes. Quiet, rasping breathing. She stands there, still silent, still watching.

She wants to say something, but an _Are you okay?_ seems hardly appropriate. Nothing feels remotely appropriate or normal or anything right now, actually, so instead she walks over, sits on the couch next to him, facing him, silent. Closes her eyes. He pulls her into a hug. Deep, rattling breaths echo into her own lungs, arms tight around her. She hugs him back. Something trails down her face.

Tears. More tears, tears on tears, flowing freely as she’s pressed against Feli’s shoulder, pinpricking the barrier around her feelings like drops of dew on a leaf, until it bursts like a balloon. They’re both crying now— her shoulder and neck are wet, too— the bubble of dissociation pops, everything splashing, messy, full of pain—

That’s it, really. Pain. Fear. Sadness. Anger. Frustration. Sinking, stomach-churning, a million thoughts and emotions all flashing by and muddling into one nauseating surge of unhappiness.

_Why did this happen to us? What did we do to deserve this?_

Her grandfather is hospitalized, in a coma, her brother probably just broke up with his boyfriend, they’re _moving_ all of a sudden, she was so close to ending her life, everything swirls into that discontent, that simple suffering. Life is so stupid, she thinks, we’re all just stupid. And things happen to us, and here we are, crying on the couch, about to ruin our lives.

How stupid. How pointless. How painful.

_I don’t even have it that bad. It just sucks._

“Thanks,” Feli says, his voice small and wet-sounding. “I love you.”

“It’s fine,” she says.

“I’m serious. Thank you.”

“I know.”

Silence. They’re like that for a while.

It’s kind of gloomy today, Chiara finds herself thinking, staring over his shoulder and outside at white-gray skies and drab light. It’s only six, but it feels tired already. Kind of a horrible day. She closes her eyes, thinks about falling into a deep and dreamless sleep forever.

It’s equal parts soothing and horrible. Mostly, she thinks about the clouds.

* * *

In the taxi, driving to the airport, going through TSA, boarding the plane— she keeps thinking about those clouds, blanketing, blocking the sun, dreary and cold— even when the sky clears, and all its cold gray parts open into creamy white, scattered over cool blue in fluffy dollops. The windows of the plane are still damp with rain, but the sky is lukewarm. Chiara stares at those clouds for a long time, as close to the window as she can get without touching it, all through takeoff.

Being short and having a ton of legroom to spite everyone is the only good thing about flying, she thinks. The rest of it is the embodiment of a headache. She doesn’t even want to think about all the layovers they have coming up. Next to her, Feli has been cheerfully patting her hand clenching the armrest, doodling and filling a sketchbook full of leaves and flowers and all kinds of vines, humming quietly to himself as the plane lurches.

“Feli,” she says, his name falling out of her mouth out of nowhere— he turns to her, eyes expectant and sunny, peeking through the clouds— 

_Never mind, never mind, just say it, never mind. Just say never mind._

“Um,” she says instead. He raises his eyebrows, smiling.

“Hmm?” He’s looking at her, but his hand is still doodling, sketching curving, full lines, body and weight and shade to these little plants on the page. Chiara swallows, breathes.

_Oh, god, I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?_

Her head throbs. Mostly, she hears his voice, sees his legs tucked in on the couch, quavering:

_I’ll be busy working to help them out—_

_I have to look after my sister—_

_She needs all the help she can get to look after him—_

“If they need help… I can work at the bed and breakfast,” she says at last, and the words are meek and packed close together, as if she and Feli have switched spots, as if she’s about to start crying and he’s going to fly into an unbearable fit of rage.

“I can work there, and you can take care of—” Roberto. Grandpa. “Him.”

Feli stops drawing, seems to stop breathing, even, just stares at her, his smile dissolved into syrupy, slow shock. 

“I know,” she says, “um, I know it’s. Important to you, to see him a lot. And it would cut a lot of gas money if I stayed there, and I’ll try to, um.” Distantly, she realizes how much her face is burning, how astonished Feli looks, because she’s actually _demonstrating human decency and responsibility for once_ , and more words come out of her but they’re probably garbled and nonsensical— 

“Chiara,” he says, voice straining, thick. “You don’t… you don’t have to do anything, you know? I love you no matter what. It’s okay if you don’t want to do it. You don’t have to—”

“I will,” she says. There’s so much more resolution in her voice than she’s ever felt in her life. “I’m going to, actually.”

_Where is this coming from? Why are you doing this? What could you possibly gain from this?_

She has no idea. But that look on Feli’s face, full of exhaustion, heavy with pain— and the shard of grateful breaking through— looking at it is like thinking about an itch, only magnifying the feeling by a million, so she sets her face solid, meets his shock with that stability she could never really give, but here it is. _I’m here. I’m real. I’m doing something. It doesn’t even mean anything, but I’m doing it._

He doesn’t embrace her, just grabs her hand and squeezes really tight, his face pale and open.

“Thank you. I’m serious.”

Chiara opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Looking him in the face is an impossibility— and his vice grip on her doesn’t slacken. Finally, she manages to force something out, some stammered “um, yeah” that she doesn’t really mean— but what else can she say? What else is there _to_ say?

_Well, I finally figured out that I’m an adult, so acting like one one would be a good idea._

_No problem. I decided to stop being a completely useless piece of shit for once._

_Hey, if I work there, I don’t have to see any of you. So…_

_I might as well do something before I actually kill myself._

_Honestly, I don’t think I could ever be with Roberto for that long, even if he is in a coma._

_You had to break up with your boyfriend. Time for me to make a sacrifice._

None of it suffices. None of it can bridge that endless, gaping canyon of silence and meaning and everything between them, no amount of truth or lack thereof can remotely brush against everything in her head and his. No humor can twist their situation into something it isn’t— no crying can shed the churn of turmoil that follows them everywhere. Instead, she leans back into her seat, gently extracts her hand, and closes her eyes.

Sleep comes easily, for once— and she slips into it gratefully, and for once everything is mercifully empty and dreamless.


	5. climbing the hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He makes friends easy  
> He's not like me  
> I watch for judgment anxiously  
> Now where in the city  
> Can that boy be?"  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["Car On A Hill"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P6sFSDpp7IU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs: like the last chapter, nothing super intense. just umm... implied internalized homophobia/denial/comphet, but really it's lots of gay panic :))) still not much food, but if that's your jam (ha!) don't worry, it will happen, and it will be glorious. I've offered up some of those nature/landscape descriptions promised instead. also, it's only getting gayer from here. be ready!!
> 
> please enjoy :)

Getting off the last plane and stepping into the airport feels like immediately falling asleep after a long day, as if all the exhaustion and claustrophobia from the day melts away in an instant— Chiara takes a moment to savor the feeling of solid ground under her feet, to breathe real air, to exist in a  _ place _ and not in that formless limbo of flying.

Next to her, Feli goes through his backpack checking for missing things, one of his better habits. All around her, people swarm around the gates and in and out of the bathroom. Children chatter, people sleep, listen to music, and it’s all real and in front of her. She’s real. She’s alive. What a feeling.

It already feels like they’re in the middle of nowhere. The airport is small, much smaller than any other airport she’s ever been in, and they’re not even there yet— Feli informs her they have another hour of driving ahead of them, but no worries, it’s all good because, “One of Grandpa’s employees is picking us up! She just texted me back, so we just have to get our luggage, and then she’ll drive us all the way to Newport, which is supposed to be a whole hour and a half of country driving…” 

Chiara takes a solid breath and tries to tune it out as much as she can. At least there won’t be any more flying,  _ thank God,  _ but she prays this employee of Roberto’s is a decent driver— years of reckless Midwestern country driving from the parents has scarred her for life. Really, the best thing about moving to Richmond was taking the bus and train everywhere.

_ And it’s a whole hour to drive to an airport. An hour. _

_ You’re never escaping this, are you. You don’t even have a car to drive. You have nothing. You are nothing. Look, you’re even actively making yourself miserable right now. _

Feli zips up his backpack and prances off, any previous pains or exhaustion scrubbed off, leaving behind a Feli who’s new and shiny and capable of walking even faster than Chiara (and the nerves are already starting to hit, so she might as well be Sonic the fucking Hedgehog). Chasing him through the small terminal hovers right on the edge of impossible.

Finally, he slows down enough for her to get within a foot— and then stops, and she nearly runs into him, luggage carousel to her right, car rental to her left— he’s shaking hands with a woman, whose eyebrows shoot up when Chiara nearly body-slams her brother, whose face dissolves back into a gentle smile.

Chiara fights the urge to throw herself onto the carousel and get shipped right back to Richmond where she belongs.  _ This must be the employee. _

_ God, she’s really pretty. _

She really is. Long, wavy brown hair brushing her arms, half of it put up into a bun with pieces of hair falling into her face from under a bandanna— sunny, tan, green-eyed. Happy. She has the faintest freckles across her nose. Taller than Chiara for sure. Her candy-striped button-up is loose, and the sleeves are rolled up, and the top buttons are undone, and there’s a glimmering blue topaz pendant sitting between her collarbones—

_ I like your necklace. Is that weird to say? Can I say that? Is that normal? _

_ Wait, isn’t that what straight guys say if they want to compliment your cleavage? _

_ How the hell do you compliment a woman without being disgusting? Why am I even trying to compliment someone anyway? Why did she come out looking like that? _

Chiara swallows down what feels like the loudest gulp on the planet. Feli continues to chatter about their flights, even putting his hand on her shoulder, seemingly oblivious to the stiffness up and down her whole body, or the searing blush she can already feel creeping up her neck.

_ Why can’t I socialize with other women? Or be normal? What is wrong with me? _

“Oh, the bags are coming out,” the employee says, turning to point at the carousel while also conveniently demonstrating to Chiara how a human being can have the side profile of a marble sculpture.

_ Literally none of this is fair. It’s not, and I can’t breathe near women without being consumed with this… jealousy. I’m fucking jealous of a stranger. I don’t even know her name. I need to stop looking at her, dear god, she’s about to look back—  _

“I’ll get it,” she says quickly, the words scrambling so badly in her brain it’s like she’s speaking gibberish, and she turns to go before she can further humiliate herself.

Behind her, Feli giggles, says something or other, but Chiara plants herself in front of the luggage carousel and doesn’t move until she hauls out their suitcases and has no choice but to turn back and face the woman again. It’s going to be fine. Deep breaths. Before she can drag everything in their general direction, Feli’s already there, taking his suitcase, and then the employee swoops in and grabs Chiara’s, flashing a quick smile, and the emotion that overtakes her in that moment is—

It’s— 

Frustration. Beyond frustration. Chiara follows the two of them, sullen, silent, fists clutching the insides of her pockets. She lags behind as they exit the building, as the employee unlocks a dusty gray minivan and pops the trunk. She watches as the employee hoists in their suitcases. She watches as the employee shuts the trunk and turns to face her— 

“Oh, nice to meet you, Chiara,” she says, flashing that same grin. “I love your earrings. I’m Isabel, by the way. We’ll be coworkers!”

Chiara moves her mouth, and at first she thinks she’s just too nervous to hear herself properly— but no, she seriously isn’t saying a word. Feli is very obviously laughing to himself. Isabel just holds out a hand to shake.

“Um, okay,” Chiara manages to force out.  _ Focus on the handshake, _ she thinks,  _ firm handshakes are good. Good impression. Firm handshake. _

So she shakes Isabel’s hand, and it’s all well and good until Isabel firm-handshakes her right back, the squeeze running up her arm and turning all her muscles into jelly.  _ This is so embarrassing. Firm handshake. Shake her hand firmly. Squeeze back, oh god, squeeze back, be firm. _

It’s probably about three seconds, but it feels like three months of torture. Chiara has to force herself not to shiver when Isabel lets go.

_ This is why you shouldn’t be in public. You literally can’t handle other human beings. _

_ Women are just difficult. They’re intimidating. I feel inferior. This is so stupid. _

_ And men are any different? _

They get in the car— Feli takes shotgun, so Chiara takes the opportunity to sprawl in the back and put her feet up on the empty seats to her side. The van is really clean, actually, and it smells like air freshener and disinfectant, like it just got scrubbed out. The suspension is a little shitty (Chiara can feel every speed bump rattling through her entire body) but it’s much better than she expected, and dozing off is easy even after sleeping for most of the day already.

* * *

She gradually wakes up about twenty minutes later, according to her phone. It’s comfortably warm. Quiet acoustic guitar is playing on the radio, Feli and Isabel are chatting about what seems to be a film director, and a vast stretch of clouded highway is all that greets her eyes.

_ It’s so open, _ is her first thought— in the distance, dark hills rim the horizon, but the highway reaches out long and flat around them, and huge swathes of grass blanket the sides. Chiara turns to stare fully, taking in the heavyset clouds and weak late-afternoon sun in her eyes. Peaceful. Nostalgic. Quiet.

_ I haven’t been out in the open country like this since… high school. Before I was even living by myself. Definitely before I moved to Richmond, with Feli. Back in the mother’s old sedan, driving out to someone’s house, sitting in the back on those tan leather seats. _

_ Surrounded by corn. _

There’s no leafy stalks out here, though, just lots of grass— grass, and those distant hills and mountains.  _ That’s something. When was the last time I saw real mountains? _

“Oh, Chiara, you’re up?” Feli says, twisting around to smile at her. “How was your nap? Good?”

“It was fine,” she says. “Do you know how much longer?”

“Well, I’d say about an hour,” Isabel says, glancing up to check her mirrors, glancing up to make  _ direct eye contact _ with Chiara. “We’ll be getting off the highway soon, so I’m glad you got your nap in!”

And she cracks another grin, one that makes Chiara’s whole self feel profoundly unsettled and maybe a little scared— forcing her expression into something bland and bitchy takes entirely too much effort. Thankfully, Isabel gets back to driving, instead of making eye contact with Chiara and making her want to set herself on fire—

_ Wait. Hold up. She likes my earrings? _

Before she knows it, she’s already pulling out her phone, flipping to the camera, staring at her haggard, boring, non-sculpture self, staring at her earrings. They’re not the mother’s, surprisingly. She bought these a couple years ago, at a department store for half off— 

Actually, they’re really boring?

_ They’re just fake diamond studs. Every human being who wears earrings on the planet has had a pair. These are literally the most boring earrings I’ve ever seen. I was doing the opposite of trying when I put them on this morning. _

_ Is she okay—? _

Chiara swallows, and somehow that unsettled feeling grows even deeper, and her heart thuds loud in her chest. The sway of the van as it starts swerving through curves and cresting on hills is nothing compared to the churning in her stomach. Isabel just keeps driving and chatting with Feli, smiling, unaware, doing whatever it is that she’s doing, not sparing Chiara a single thought. Chiara can’t spare a single thought about anything else.

Mostly, she stares at Isabel, that restlessness roiling up in her. Then she convinces herself to stop, to sleep. Then she closes her eyes for five minutes before immediately getting back to being a freak. She doesn’t even listen to their conversation— no, she just keeps  _ staring _ . The rest of the drive passes the same way.

_ This is so dumb. This is so infuriating. Why am I acting like this? _

_ You know exactly why. _

_ I hate her. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I signed up for this. _

They eventually get to Newport, take a couple turns up to a cramped-looking one story house, painted pale blue with a big bay window in front. Isabel pulls up on the side of the road and parks.

“It’s what, six?” Feli says, squinting at his phone. “I think I’ll visit Grandpa after I get everything in the house…”

“Yeah, of course!” Isabel says, unbuckling and getting out of the car. Chiara follows suit, and soon the three of them are standing on the sidewalk stretching— it’s quiet. The sun is slanting gorgeous and golden into Chiara’s eyes, which she feels is a blessing on a lot of levels, and the air is somehow fresher and sweeter than it’s ever been.

She feels good. She feels good when she helps Feli carry his suitcase inside, and she feels good when she helps him unpack. It’s all well and good, really, until Feli has to open his mouth and ask (in front of Isabel, for good measure):

“Oh, Chiara, are you staying to visit Grandpa too?”

Isabel turns to them, sitting on the couch with pleasant curiosity playing out on her face. Chiara suddenly develops a very acute desire to just start running.

_ Out the door, down the sidewalk… hitchhike and never look back. _

“Um,” she says. “Um, well, I thought was going to go work at the—”

“You don’t start today, it’s okay,” Isabel interjects, smiling in a very calm and helpful way. “You can stay with Feli, and he can drive you out to the Quill later tonight or tomorrow. I can even pick you up. I dropped Roberto’s car off across the street, by the way, so feel free to use it! Totally fine with me.”

Chiara, meanwhile, feels the opposite of calm and helpful. Feli just turns back to her expectantly.

_ Look at his face. That fucking look. Like a hurt animal. I can’t deal with this right now. I definitely can’t even think about seeing the old man right now. Please, God, don’t make me have this conversation. _

“I don’t want to waste Feli’s time,” she eventually says to Isabel, though she isn’t facing either of them. “You’ve already driven a ton and it’s been a long day. I can visit later.”

Feli frowns. “But—”

“It’s fine,” Chiara enunciates, turning and looking him dead in the eye with her best death stare, willing him to keep it to himself. “Seriously. I’m fine. Not today.”

“I…” Feli blinks, looks down, sighs. “Okay. Call me, okay?”

Chiara just sighs right back and turns to leave. 

“Well, I’m out.” Then, to Isabel, still watching with an odd mix of emotions on her face: “I’ll be by the car.” And she does exactly that, stepping back into that bath of sunlight and sitting down on the curb, staring at the pavement and the empty street, tapping her fingers back and forth on her phone in her pocket. Trying to clear her head. Trying to breathe.

_ I’m so tired. As soon as I get to… to the Quill— I’m going to bed. _

_ No, there’s another thirty-minute drive to get there. Shit. God, I want to sleep. I shouldn’t sleep in the car, I’ll never be able to fall asleep tonight, this shit just keeps coming. Give me a break. _

She turns when she hears a noise behind her— it’s Isabel, shutting the door of the house, that same expression on her face. Chiara doesn’t even know how to feel about it: furrowed eyebrows, concerned eyes, chewing on her lip, as if she’s about to say anything any second now.

_ Please, God, if you say anything, I’ll end myself. _

That lasts through getting back into the car and buckling up. It lasts all the way up through turning back onto the main road, actually— then Isabel clears her throat, idly scratching at her necklace.

“So, why not stay with Feli tonight?” she says, eyes still on the road but attention very much on Chiara.

_ God. What a nightmare. God, what do I say to this. What do I stammer out? On a scale from one to ten, how much should I sound like a bullied twelve year old? Am I supposed to act like I care? _

She takes her sweet time in coming up with something— eventually, she just shrugs and curls up to look out the window and away from Isabel.

“I told you, I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.” Honestly, she feels substantially better about this interaction than their first, that veil of intimidation gone, so she ends up adding in: “And it’s not like it’s going to do anything if I do or don’t. He’s in a coma. I don’t— it doesn’t matter. I’m just tired.”

Isabel is silent. Chiara turns to look at her just to see her expression go flat, hands tapping restlessly on the steering wheel.

“Oh,” she says, “I get it,” and there’s none of that sunny vigor left in her words or on her face. Actually, it sounds like she doesn’t get it at all, which makes Chiara’s entire body thrum with dread.

_ That was most definitely a horrible thing to say. Not even there, and the job’s already fucked. I’ve clearly insulted her somehow. God, I want to die, this is so stupid.  _

_ Why am I still putting up with this? Why am I doing this? Who even cares? _

_ He’s in a coma, for God’s sake. I could perform a tap dance routine on his face and he would’t fucking budge. _

“Hmm?” Isabel says, glancing over. “Did you say s—”

“No,” Chiara says, rushed, heart pounding, “no, I was just talking to myself. Nothing.”

And they don’t say anything else, not until they’re long out of town and driving down the coastline, not until Chiara is completely enveloped by the way the Pacific surges, gray and churning, heaving up against driftwood-speckled beaches, all foamy splashing and salty spray that she swears she can smell through the open window. She’s never seen an ocean like this, and it eats up every thought she might have.

No, it’s not until the matter leaves her head completely, washed away by the ocean, when Isabel sighs and starts to speak.

“I’m sorry for acting judgy, I, uh,” she starts, biting her cheek. “I didn’t mean to be hurtful, or anything—”

“Um, you’re fine,” Chiara says, feeling a bit rudely awakened from her reverie, feeling a lot of confusion at this random remark. “It’s fine. I don’t care.”

“Well, I understand that grief is hard, right, I mean, I’ve lost people… Well, I didn’t care much either— that’s kind of heartless, um, I mean— oh, not to say you’re heartless! What I’m trying to say is that I get it, I, uh…” She trails off, changes lanes, the stone in her necklace glimmering when she turns to check her mirrors.

Chiara feels like she should probably stop this tangent before it goes off the wall— she also feels entertained, maybe a little indignant, all swimming in that confusing throb of  _ what? _ in her head at everything Isabel does and says— so she’s quiet.

“It’s like planting a tree, if the tree is. Um. It’s a young tree, and it’s growing fast, but then the tree… okay, this isn’t making sense—” here she takes a deep breath, tucks her hair behind her ear. “What I mean to say is, I care a lot about Roberto. He’s a really great boss. Really, I could work at the Quill for the rest of my life because of him. He’s not— I’m not going to steal your family, he’s not my dad or anything, I just appreciate him, I think he’s great, but you already know that— um, it was just shocking for me to hear. If that makes sense! And…”

Isabel tapers off again, visibly swallows.  _ She’s so similar to Feli, _ Chiara finds herself thinking.  _ Of course they get along. She’s so…  _

“You’re,” Chiara starts.  _ You’re such a normal good person. You’re so lively. You’re so full of everything. _ “You’re fine.”

Then, as casually as she can, knocking her pride down a few pegs: “Don’t worry about it.”

Isabel huffs a sigh heavy with relief, her shoulders visibly slumping. “Okay, thank God. I was worried.”

Chiara can’t help laughing at that. “About what, me?”

“Yeah!” Isabel chuckles sheepishly, glancing over. “I didn’t want to make you upset or anything, just a knee-jerk reaction.”

Chiara snorts. “My opinion is the last thing you should be worried about.”

“You’re my boss’s granddaughter, though—”

“Well, I’m a horrible one. What I think means nothing.”

Isabel blinks, apparently at a loss for words.  _ Oh, how the tables have turned. _ Eventually, she shakes her head, shakes it off, rolling up her window.

“I’m sure that’s not true! Anyways, I didn’t want to be mean, that’s all. I try to— not.”

Chiara is split equally between amusement and embarrassment, so she settles on a slight nod designed to be as easy to miss as possible and turns back to stare out at the ocean.

Really, she feels kind of bad now, because most people aren’t Feli and don’t really get that she’s just, well, saying stuff to say it. Most people just shit on her right back. Wait, is this manipulative? Should she actually be feeling bad?

_ God, just— be quiet. Talk about not knowing how to socialize. _

_ Why did I do any of that? Why did I ever agree to any of this? Why couldn’t I have picked the day before to do it? _

_ This is why I shouldn’t be allowed around people. I can’t name three successful social interactions in the last year, and I’m not breaking the streak any time soon. Honestly, I wonder why I can’t keep my mouth shut. I wonder why I can’t just talk. I wonder why I can’t act casual. I wonder why I can’t take anything seriously. _

Outside, the sky is starting to darken, that flaxen light fading into deep orange edged in blue. Chiara wonders how much longer she has— 

Maybe if she just keeps her mouth shut and doesn’t talk to anyone she can just sweep floors for three months and forget any of this ever happened. Maybe she can just crawl back into her hole of drugs and guys when Roberto either dies or gets better. Maybe if she just ignores everything hard enough, she won’t have to think about it at all.

* * *

When Isabel finally pulls up to the property, driving past the sign proclaiming the  _ Quill Creek Inn _ and pulling into the back parking lot, the sky is twilight-blue and the air is chilly. The Quill itself is more of a collection of cabins sitting parallel to the beach— there’s a big lodge, where Chiara assumes the main facilities are, along with said cabins on its left on a path facing the ocean. There’s a good fifty feet of sand that dissolves into rocks and grass in front of the cabins, and the lodge has an even bigger beach in the back with what seems to be a section of tide pools stretching out to the right. A gentle breeze rushes up and around her.

It smells clean, summery, almost. It feels like an early September night, when the bright heat of summer lingers behind a cool freshness in the air, before the mundanity of winter sets in all the way. It’s nice. She takes it in for a second, standing outside that van in the parking lot, staring at the dark and distant ocean that seems to encircle her.

Deep breaths come easy. She instinctively bundles up tighter in her jacket.

Then Isabel opens the trunk, and Chiara’s back in her own body, hoisting her suitcase out and following Isabel down the path to the lodge. The chill of twilight has already faded dark into night— so stepping inside is a shock of coziness.

The main room is circular, several eccentrically embroidered chairs and sofas arranged by a crackling fireplace, with a computer desk in one corner and a long dining table on the other side. A staircase winds up and over to a second floor, creating an interior balcony that rings the main room. The ceiling is tall and spectacularly vaulted. She can spot what looks like a kitchen through a door in the back, along with a spacious porch and a direct view of the beach beyond it— everything is floored and paneled in dark, glossy pine, looking sleek and surprisingly modern.

Really, it’s beautiful. It might be one of the best feelings she’s ever had stepping into a building. Feli is the art freak of the two of them, but Chiara can still admit just how nice it feels to be here, to soak up that soft warmth of friendly architecture— it feels at once both cozy and perfectionistically neat. How can she not love that?

“It’s nice, huh?” Isabel says, and Chiara turns to see her grinning at her with the force of a supernova, so bright she has to duck her head and pretend to examine the hardwood flooring.

“Sure,” she mumbles.  _ God, my face is probably burning a hole through reality right now. _

Isabel chuckles, stretching and turning up to look at the ceiling. “I feel you. The first time I came here, it was the same expression, same feelings.”

“How—” Chiara’s throat dries up, but it’s too late to take anything back with the way Isabel is staring at her now— she gulps, breathes, tries again. “How, um, long have you been working here?”

Isabel bursts into that grin again. If Chiara didn’t look maniacal when she smiled, she’d be grinning right back.  _ It literally hurts to look at, and it’s impossible to not absorb or reflect it. It’s legitimately painful. I feel like my soul is being seared out of my body. Really, why do high energy people exist, and why am I surrounded by them? _

“Well, it’s been a couple years. Two and a half years? A while… Honestly, Roberto really helped me out. I’m really happy here,” and she chuckles like she’s nervous, like she’s sharing some crazy secret, “I’m happy, and I hope you have a good time here, too.”

A vein of something  _ else _ runs through the conversation for some reason, a sudden awkward silence in which Chiara can’t bear to keep having this conversation, where she can’t tear her eyes away from this  _ woman _ and her sparkling necklace and the smile in her eyes— Isabel seems to feel it too, because she does that nervous laugh again and gives Chiara an extremely hearty pat on the back that feels like it realigns every vertebrae in her spine.

“Well! Alright! I’ll show you to your room, and we can get to work tomorrow!”

Chiara’s head is spinning entirely too much to do anything but follow. She mutely drags her suitcase into the room, hangs up her jacket, sits on the bed. 

_ God, I have no idea what’s going on. I have no idea what I’m doing. _

Isabel promises to bring her some tea in a couple minutes and steps out after showing her where the bathroom is, and now she’s alone, staring at the wall, away from Feli for the first time in a year, across the country, Roberto’s probably dying, she can’t talk to normal people without losing her shit.

She couldn’t figure it out if she tried. Her phone says it’s barely ten over in Richmond, but she already feels heavy with exhaustion—  _ oh, who am I kidding, I’m always fucking exhausted. _

_ Get up, change clothes. Before she gets back. Maybe just fall asleep so you don’t have to embarrass yourself more, or she gives you the cup and accidentally touches your hand and you drop it and it shatters and spills everywhere, or— _

_ Stop. Stop, stop right now, or I’ll actually do it and she’ll really hate me forever. _

God, what a nightmare. Chiara scrambles up, unzips her suitcase, and slips on the old hoodie she likes to sleep in, unpacking the top layer of her clothes into the sizable walk-in closet.

_ Thank god it’s a full walk-in and not just a folding door. I’d die of shame. _

_ Shame about what? _

Her head pounds. She decides to put aside the rest of it to deal with later.

“Hey, I brought you tea!” Isabel’s voice calls out, and Chiara steps out to see her setting a saucer and cup on the nightstand. “Sorry I took so long, um, I didn’t know what you wanted, so I just put in some honey and a slice of lemon, that’s how I usually like it—” She blinks, taking a deep breath that sounds more like a heave.

“Oh—” Chiara does her best to school her face into a neutral expression. “Oh, thanks.”

“Yup!” Isabel’s voice is peppy, but she doesn’t move a muscle, just blinks like a startled animal.

Silence. Chiara clears her throat— “Um. Okay. Good… goodnight?”

“Oh! Ha, yeah, good night,” Isabel says, slapping the door frame like it just said something astoundingly funny. “Goodnight, I’ll be down the hall on the left, bye!”

And she’s gone, the door closing behind her with a loud click. Chiara sits down on the bed again, takes a sip of the tea, realizes a couple too many things.

One, it’s a delicious cup of tea— she’s definitely a coffee person, and plain, normal tea has always been few and far between, but it’s good— mildly sweet, light and warm and comforting on her tongue, with the faintest bitterness and a pleasing tang from the lemon. The temperature is perfect, just cool enough to sip without scalding yourself. The rest of the cup goes in no time.

Two, that’s probably the first time she’s said goodnight to someone since… she doesn’t even want to think about it. A long time. She’s pretty sure she’s never said a single greeting or farewell to Feli. Good night is already off limits for anyone she doesn’t know, and good morning is beyond unheard of. 

_ I don’t even know what possessed me to say that. I don’t even know why that was in my head. _

Third, she’s not wearing pants. Sure, it’s a big hoodie, and sure, it goes down pretty far, and  _ sure, I’m not wearing any fucking pants. I had that whole conversation with her while not wearing pants. _

_ I said goodnight to her while pantsless. I literally—  _

My brain was fried, she thinks, my thoughts were off, it was a long day, Feli doesn’t care if I walk around in my underwear, I’m just a dumb person, it happens, it doesn’t matter since we’re two grown women, it doesn’t matter even though that’s literally my coworker and  _ Jesus Christ she definitely thinks I’m a freak beyond any measure of the word. _

_ First I said stupid shit in front of her, then I couldn’t talk normally in front of her, and  _ then  _ I started walking around like  _ this _ because I am a  _ fool _.  _

That traitorous fucking blush is back, and she can feel it prickling from her cheeks all the way down her chest. Chiara just crawls into bed, turns off the lights, and tries to ignore both the warmth in her stomach from the tea and the horrific embarrassment that threatens to break through every single thought she will ever have for the rest of her life. 

_ I really do this to myself, and it shows. Maybe if I fall asleep it will all be a horrible dream— oh, who am I kidding, none of my dreams are this bad. You’re doing amazing, Chiara! _

It’s a long time before she can get to sleep. Concentrating on the distant crash of the ocean is the only thing that pulls her mind away enough to finally, finally fall in, and her initial restlessness melts away into one big puddle of quiet nothing.

What a fucking day. She breathes deep and keeps it going all through the night.


	6. star-dappled green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Picked up a pencil and wrote "I love you" in my finest hand  
> Wanted to send it, but I don't know where I stand."  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["I Don't Know Where I Stand"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tcrwnlDDOZs)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was struggling and took a rest day so I'm a bit late on updating, but chapters should be coming pretty regularly again! a couple notes on this chapter and this story that I felt were appropriate:
> 
> -I'm not endorsing or condoning the way Chiara thinks and acts, whatever she does, and I hope it's clear that she's a troubled individual who has some flawed thinking patterns. spotting the internalized homophobia is not difficult  
> -an extension of that: Chiara's sexuality and her self-perception of said sexuality is complicated and will be explored fully throughout the story; I will confirm she is a lesbian who has deeply struggled with compulsory heterosexuality throughout her entire life and copes accordingly. she will not get involved with men or engage in similar behaviors in the actual story, though I am trying to accurately portray that facet of the lesbian experience, along with a narrative that's beyond the typical "realization, coming out, success" bc that's just not the reality for many lesbians. any confusion you might have about her sexuality is valid and mirrors her own lol.  
> -that said, I'm not trying to tell a monolithic story about being a wlw either. this is just from my experience and shared experiences with some other people I know  
> -also, to reiterate from the first A/N: I'm characterizing in a way I feel is appropriate for context, while also expanding beyond canon/fanon cliches and one-sidedness. the two new characters are nyo!Austria and nyo!Hungary, and I've worked to flesh them out in a way that's fresh and interesting to me. you will definitely learn more about them later !  
> -(mostly I just feel like canon Hungary is very butch coded and everyone's mom,,, so I made nyo!Hungary very fem coded and everyone's dad. I hope you like him)  
> -also, look for cameos! there will be plenty
> 
> anyways, super long note aside, no CWs for this chapter other than a bit of panic and the usual offhanded remark/self-deprecation. there's a lot of food/cooking in this one? just one of those chapters, worry not, I'll put up the next one (a very exciting one lol) in a day or two.
> 
> please enjoy the chapter :)

Chiara wakes up with a jolt— there isn’t really a dream, only a sharp plummet into consciousness, and her eyes fly open to— 

A strange room, spacious and wood-paneled, long curtains to her left that open just enough to blind her with the early morning sun. For a moment, her head plunges into panic— the sheets and comforter smell like a different brand of detergent, everything is much too warm, there’s an abstract painting on the wall that makes her head spin— then the initial confusion melts away, because _I’m… in Oregon. At the Quill._

 _And I’m still not wearing pants._ God, she never wants to think about that again. That, or Isabel, or anything involving another human being.

It takes a while to get moving. Finally rolling out of bed and nearly taking the blankets with her, she stumbles over to the bathroom to shower and brush her teeth, spends an extra-long time on her makeup, and spends another chunk of time getting dressed. Nice earrings, this time: cobalt blue glass drops that dangle from gold hoops, and she pairs them with slacks and a turtleneck in all black.

_Not making a fool of myself again. I will be normal. I will do normal things._

Even after she’s done everything she can think of, it’s barely six-thirty, and it’s not exactly like she has anything urgent. She has no clue when she’s supposed to start working, either. _Maybe I’ll sit around for a little. It’s fine. They won’t miss me for ten more minutes._

So she pulls open the curtains to look outside, and to her surprise there’s a full sliding door leading out to a small porch, opening up to the vastness of shore and sea. She’s out there before she knows it— sand between her toes, just standing and staring out— the sun is bright but gentle, and it feels like the world and sky are opening up to her and her alone.

The sea is different now, quieter, the tide pulling it all the way back into a distant ribbon of slate-blue. Further out, she can spot heavy patches of morning fog and thick wisps of clouds stretching above her. 

The sand is cool and the sun adds the slightest warmth. Seagulls swoop down, up, down again. _It’s so calm._

_It’s so nice._

Chiara could stand there for the rest of her life, never having to think about anyone else in the world, just absorbing. All she can think about is sun, sand, sea— it sounds stupidly like a sunscreen slogan, but it’s true. The thought of staring at this until she shrivels away is the best one she’s had in a while.

All of this is rudely shattered when her phone buzzes in her pocket with a new text— squinting at the screen, it’s not Feli, but it’s not from any area code she’s familiar with— and she unlocks her phone to see:

 _Hi Chiara it’s Isabel! You look happy out there! Wanted to let you know I’m starting on breakfast and would love to show you the ins and outs :)_ _  
_ _But take your time, we serve at 8:30!_

Chiara whips around to stare back at the lodge, and sure enough, there she is, standing by the window and waving with a big smile. _Oh, God. She saw me._

_That fucking smiley face. The exclamation points. I can’t deal with it._

Chiara doesn’t bother responding, just makes a beeline back into her room and makes sure to lock the sliding door and close the curtains. Boots on, phone in her pocket, her whole body clenched in anticipation for whatever’s about to happen— _God, I’m not ready. I’m not. I’m really, truly not._

She leaves anyway, walking down the hallway back into the main room. _There’s a couple more staff rooms— I wonder if they’re working here right now. I really hope not._

In the main room, there’s only one person, a skinny, middle-aged man she assumes is a guest. He’s perched on one of the couches around the fireplace and frowning at a crossword with a teacup in hand, his eyebrows furrowed magnificently.

 _Shit, my teacup from last night,_ she thinks. _I’ll have to bring it out later. Preferably when Isabel isn’t around and we never have to discuss last night again._

He doesn’t seem to notice her, thankfully, still scribbling in the margins of the paper, so she slips by and back through the kitchen door.

“Chiara!” Isabel says. “How’d you sleep?” She’s wearing a bright orange apron, hair tied back in a loose low bun, and she smiles at Chiara with that same radiant grin. No necklace today, thank God.

“Uh, fine,” Chiara says. “You needed help?”

Isabel nods, gestures to the array of ingredients on the metal counters: flour, eggs, milk, butter, sugar, bacon and ham, herbs, spinach, fruit, jams, a moderate amount of each.

“I’m making crepes today,” she says. “Usually the guests have breakfast and dinner with us, so I do the cooking then, and if anyone’s having lunch then Roberto—” Here she falters, smile turning awkward as she gestures helplessly— “Well, he usually made the staff lunch, and it’s not _really_ part of our plan to serve lunch for guests, but he liked making extra portions for them, and dessert most nights, and. Um. Anyways.”

“Anyways,” Chiara echoes. Isabel shakes herself, chuckles nervously, starts tapping the lid of a jar of jam.

“Anyways! We have five or six guests having breakfast today…” Isabel frowns, opening the carton of eggs. “I want to make both sweet and savory, and they can put whatever they want in them, plus there’s a family with an eight year old, so that sounds good… Oh, can you cook? Of course you don’t need to be a pro chef, but…”

Chiara nods, tries to find a way to phrase it that isn’t completely narcissistic. “I, uh, it’s an interest of mine. Sure.” 

_It’s actually the only thing I can do well and the only hobby I have and usually the only thing I think about. Good to see my social impossibility is paying off._

Isabel visibly perks up at the word _interest._ “Great! I think I’m going to make the batter first, would you mind sauteing that bacon and spinach? And maybe make… five? Six? Sunny side up eggs, I want to make crepe squares… you don’t need to worry about mixing it up, since we don’t have any vegetarians today. And then we can make those crepes together.”

It’s _so_ stupid, but the “together” makes Chiara want to die. _You’re just cooking. Making food, like you always do— and there’s another person who isn’t Feli and she’s terrifying and oh god, I’m already over this._

She settles on mutely nodding, taking the offered cutting board and knife, and washing her hands.

Meat is first— she leaves the strips of bacon whole and assumes they’re for people to take as they please. The ham is probably for those crepe squares, so she dices it up into small slivers. Then, heating up a pan, she lays out the strips, sets up a paper plate for catching the grease when they’re done. In goes the first batch. 

_This might just be the first time I’ve enjoyed frying bacon._ To be honest, Chiara isn’t much of a bacon person— she’s always preferred cooking with guanciale instead— but this is some really, really good bacon, maybe the best bacon she’s ever seen: each strip is thick and woodsmoke-smelling as it sizzles in the pan, the lean parts beautifully crispy and the fatty parts tender, and it looks so good her empty stomach begs her to steal a piece.

_It looks wonderful. I wonder where they got it. Is bacon in Oregon just… like this?_

She turns to glance at Isabel, cracking eggs into a blender with the utmost concentration on her face. She does it with one hand, the motion fluid and quick, fingers pulling the shell apart in seconds. _God, she’s so good at it. I can’t even do that._

_You need to stop. Stop staring at her hands and cook your bacon._

Chiara doesn’t. She can’t help herself— she waits until the last egg is cracked, then asks: “This is really good bacon, where’s it from?”

Isabel glances up, the initial surprise on her face shifting to delight. “Wow! Glad you noticed! Actually, we get our meat, seafood, milk, eggs, most of our ingredients, really, from a couple local farms and fisheries. Roberto has a contract with them. And that bacon is my favorite.”

She smiles, seemingly to herself, and gets back to sifting in flour. Chiara gets back to a pan of dangerously crispy bacon and the beginnings of a stress headache.

_God, get a hold of yourself. She’s not going to kill you._

So Chiara does her best to concentrate solely on what she’s doing, which works for the most part. She cooks the rest of the bacon, pours off the grease and starts on the eggs, feeling just a little more conscious of her egg-cracking technique. Still, it’s not a bad feeling. For once, she actually knows what she’s doing— honestly, this morning has been the best thing to happen to her so far. 

And the eggs— she’s so-so on eggs, but cooking and working with them is an entirely different beast. Fluffy egg whites, pale beaten yolks, cracked-open soft boiled, all of it. If you can’t work with eggs, you can’t consider yourself a competent cook. Chiara will die on this hill as many times as she needs to. And they’re not just utilitarian, they’re _interesting_ , which is so weird to say— actually, though, an egg sunny side up is one of her favorite things to make, and the sense of accomplishment whenever she makes one is as good as it gets. She doesn’t even like them, but there’s just something so satisfying about watching translucent shift white, that perfect orange splash of yolk in the center. A fried egg on toast with a healthy dash of pepper is as good as an egg can look all by itself— she’s a strong believer in the aesthetics being half of what makes good food excellent. 

_Really, Isabel’s onto something with these crepes. Crepes are only as good as they are because they’re the elegant trophy wives of breakfast food, like mimosas and hollandaise. They’re just easy, watered-down pancakes for people who are too shitty at cooking to make pancakes. You swirl some batter, dump some butter and cinnamon sugar and a strawberry on it, a dollop of whipped cream if you’re under the age of twelve, and suddenly it’s a culinary masterpiece._

_Still doesn’t make them any less good, does it?_

The eggs are done, and she’s more than a little proud of them. Behind her, Isabel starts up the blender, pulsing then letting it run for a few seconds, stopping, letting it run again. 

Spinach is next: it’s not a lot, and she assumes it’s only for the crepe squares, so she just sautes it all until the leaves are barely wilted and takes the pan off the heat. It’s just in time— Isabel is scraping down the sides of the blender now— _time to make those crepes. Together._

_Oh, God, and it’s only seven-thirty._

It’s a lot. Isabel is already walking over to the stove, _shit, is everything ready? Is everything done? Is it all—_

“Okay! How do you want to do this?” Isabel says, standing entirely too close. The only thing keeping Chiara from stumbling right into her is the blender full of crepe batter in her hands. _And thank God for that. I really can’t control myself, huh?_

“Uh,” she says, trips over her words. “Uh, I don’t mind… I can make a batch myself, you can do whatever you want—”

“Actually, you know what, I’ll just help you!” Isabel says sunnily. Chiara braces herself for something painful and humiliating. Isabel just pulls another pan out of a cabinet and hands it to her.

“Here, I’ll pour, you swirl and flip them, and I can put together those crepe squares while you do it, okay?” Another blinding, infectious, bursting smile.

 _Does she ever stop smiling? How many times does she smile in a day? Honestly, how many times does she_ not _smile a day?_

Chiara can’t figure out a response that isn’t sickening or rude, so she settles on putting the stove on low heat and setting up the pan. And then Isabel— swoops in close out of nowhere, a bowl of melted butter in one hand and a pastry brush in the other— she’s so, so close, close enough for Chiara to smell her perfume as she brushes the pan with butter. It smells fruity, citrusy in the top notes, but the base notes are deep and woody and mellow, and Chiara’s knees are _so fucking weak right now._

_God, she actually smells really good. She smells like— men’s cologne._

_Jesus, is that why she makes me nervous? She smells like a hot guy? She—_

Isabel leans back, reaches for the blender to start pouring, and the moment is over, but the smell still lingers in Chiara’s head and sears itself into her brain. God. Deep breaths. Be normal. Swirl the batter in the pan. Androgynous fragrance is all the rage right now. Hell, her own perfume is technically a men’s fragrance. It’s normal. It just smells good. Maybe she’ll ask what Isabel’s is later.

_Who are you kidding. Literally, who do you think you’re fooling?_

Chiara gulps, peels up the edge of the crepe with her fingers: it’s perfect, toasty golden and ever-so-slightly crispy on the edges, so she grabs it and flips it over. Simple. Easy. Feels good. A satisfying sizzle, the smell of buttery crepes, Isabel grating a block of Gruyere next to her, all of it is just nice, everything else aside.

“Wow, do you just not feel anything in your fingers?” Isabel says, peering over as Chiara grabs the crepe and moves it to the pan next to her.

“No, I don’t feel anything at all,” Chiara says immediately, her voice snapping with spite, and by the time she realizes how irritating that probably was, it’s entirely too late. Isabel just laughs and pours another puddle of batter into the pan for Chiara to swirl up.

“You know what, I respect that,” she says, grinning, and gets to work on the finished crepe. 

Chiara watches as the crepe in her own pan cooks— watches Isabel sprinkle on the cheese, spinach, and ham in the center. Then, she tops it with one of those fried eggs and folds up the crepe’s sides into a neat square so only the golden-orange dome of the yolk is showing.

_It looks so nice and neat— like a restaurant’s. I guess it kind of is. Aesthetics really are the key._

Isabel slides the package into her pan, lifting the edge every so often to check until the bottom is crispy and everything melts together, and tops it with a sprig of parsley. 

_Of course. She’s good._

Chiara finishes with the crepe in her pan, slides it over to Isabel’s as soon as it’s empty again, and they just keep pouring and flipping and sprinkling until the fried eggs are all used up and there’s a stack of plain crepes next to the filled ones. 

Chiara gets to pouring orange juice and coffee and water into glass pitchers. Isabel pulls out a metal rolling cart and starts loading it with crepes and plates and fillings, then cutting up strawberries and bananas, tossing them with the biggest, juiciest blackberries Chiara has ever seen.

“Want one?” Isabel says, and Chiara realizes she’s been staring _again_. “Marionberries! Best of Oregon!” She holds one out, as if she’s daring Chiara to eat it right out of her hand, as if—

Chiara gulps. She takes it, and she eats it, and focuses on the juicy, sweet burst of it in her mouth, the flavor bold and deep, full and round. It’s the most delicious blackberry she’s ever tasted. It also feels like she’s chewing on her own brain cells.

“Good, right?”

_No, I’m not good, because I can’t keep acting like this. I’m so dumb. I can’t make some crepes without ceasing to function. What is going on inside my head?_

_Great question. What the hell_ is _going on inside your head?_

_Really, I need to remove myself from society. I can’t do this anymore. I just keep thinking, but I stop myself from thinking about what I’m thinking, but I can’t stop thinking about the things I’m thinking—_

“Chiara?”

“Oh, good,” she stammers, sliding the pitchers onto the cart. _Be polite. Be nice. Don’t get rude. Don’t get angry._ “I’m good. I’m going to go, I’ll be back to make lunch. And clean rooms and sweep and do whatever else I have to do.”

Isabel frowns and leans closer. “Wait— are you okay? Are you sick? And you don’t have to make lunch for us just because it was Roberto’s thing— um, you can eat breakfast with us staff and the guests, I was going to introduce you to the other two…” She trails off with a frown, her eyes boring straight into Chiara’s. 

God, it’s the same look as her brother, the same pleading, puppy eyes, except (no offense to Feli) it actually makes her feel bad, worse than she already does.

_Isn’t that just the way it always is?_

_It is, isn’t it?_

“You know what, I’ll make you a plate,” Isabel says, putting on that smile again, turning to the cart to start doing just that. “I’ll just set these aside for you—”

A surge of irritation floods her, annoyance at being pushed into yet another situation where she has to make an ass of herself, annoyance at the way none of her words and actions remotely reflect her thoughts, and everything churns up until she can’t take it anymore.

“Please,” Chiara says, and her voice cracks horrifically under that anger. “Please, leave me the _fuck_ alone.”

 _Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Do not have a mental breakdown in front of her. Stop it right now. Apologize._ But her throat goes silent, her face freezes—

_I hate this. I don’t want to be here. This is too stressful. This is too much. This keeps happening._

Isabel _definitely_ gets it now, if the expression in her eyes is anything to go by, and she backs off, hands gesturing limply while she talks.

“Oh, okay,” she says. “Okay. Sorry. Um, take your time… I’m just gonna go… set the table.”

She practically runs out of the kitchen with the cart— and Chiara is still standing there, staring at the counter, staring at the plate of crepes folded up into quarters— there’s three with room for a fourth, each with a scoop of fruit inside spilling out, drizzled with syrup and topped with more fruit— she grabs at the collar of her turtleneck tight and doesn’t let go until breathing is impossible and her head is wiped empty.

Let go. Deep breaths. Deep, harsh, gasping breaths, her body screaming to be left alive.

_It’s kind of funny. I predict it going badly, and then it goes badly, and then I predict it going worse, and then I make it worse, and then I hurt myself for making it worse. Consistency is key._

_She really hates me now, huh? That’s great._

_Actually, it’s really funny to think about, because nothing really happened, she was just a nice person and I decided to freak out and start swearing at her. Actually, nothing happened at all. And nothing’s wrong with her. I’m just a piece of shit—_

Might as well eat those crepes and then go sulk in her room, maybe feel super sick later and throw up all of it, maybe be paralyzed with anxiety at the thought of walking past everyone eating and them seeing her and judging her for all the shitty things she’s done and how poorly she lives up to Roberto. Maybe she should climb into the air vents and get trapped and suffocate. Maybe she really should just shut up and eat the crepes.

The first bite: delicious, as expected. The fruit is tossed in some kind of preserve that’s perfectly between tart and sweet, and it’s wonderful and fresh and juicy. The crepe is faintly buttery, just a little crispy on the outside, mildly sweet, and the syrup on top makes it perfect. 

It’s really perfect.

Everything is drenched in that perfect, glossy coat of shame, frustration, tasting perfect, looking perfect, it’s— 

Delicious. Painful. Impossible. Chiara can’t bring herself to fully enjoy any of it.

She’s there in her corner of the kitchen, hunched over the counter like a wilted plant, shoveling food into her mouth and waiting for it to be over, when the kitchen door bangs open with a burst of chatter.

_Shit! Is she back?_

Chiara swivels to stare, but it isn’t Isabel— actually, it’s two people, a man and a woman, bickering and fumbling through the kitchen cabinets and clearly far too occupied to notice her. The woman is tall, immaculate, wearing a white sweater tucked into a heather-violet skirt that swishes around her ankles. Her hair is glossy and pinned away from her face and perfect, swirling around her shoulders every time she leans in to admonish the man.

He, on the other hand, is a complete 180: sturdy leather boots, work pants, and a denim jacket studded with pins and patches. His hair is pulled back in a short ponytail— and when he turns toward the light, his face gleams with highlighter and his eyelids shimmer golden-bronze.

_1950s and San Francisco. What a winning combination._

She tries to stay inconspicuous while listening to their conversation. They’re arguing about… 

“Anna, you’re such a stick in the mud,” the man grouses, pushing aside a jar of dried pinto beans. “If you were doing it, you’d take at least an hour per blade of grass. It’s my _job_ , and I’ll landscape however I want.”

“Well, you couldn’t make it look a little bit nicer, could you? And that’s not even my name,” says “Anna”, hands on her hips, looking at him over her glasses. “There is _zero_ utilitarian purpose to any of the plants on this property. They’re here _to look nice._ I don’t have the faintest idea if you even know what that means.”

_Shrubbery?_

The man rolls his eyes and shuts the cabinet. “Fine. _Anneliese._ And Roberto didn’t have a problem with it.”

“He’s gone. And the bush by Cabin Five is _literally, actually_ covering an entire window.”

“What, are you my boss? Do you pay me?”

Anneliese scoffs. “Daniel, I’ve been your boss since you were f—”

“That!” Daniel exclaims, leaning in, “is _not_ true. I’m the one who had balls and I still am. Figuratively _and_ literally.”

“You sound exactly like— actually, that has nothing to do with the overgrown state of everything— and aren’t you supposed to pick up at the beach too?”

Chiara shoves the last bite of crepe into her mouth. This might just be the most meaningless conversation she’s heard, and she and Feli lived together for a year.

_God, I should probably talk to Feli about everything, huh?_

_Or not. I’ve had enough shame today to last me through the rest of the week._

“Hey! You!” Daniel says, and Chiara whips her head up to see him grinning slyly right at her. “What do you think, do you think the landscaping is good?”

 _This is so dumb. I don’t have the patience for this right now. I couldn’t care less about hedge trimming if I tried._ “Why the fuck are you asking me?” Chiara says, swallowing her food, feeling her heart clench tight in her chest.

Daniel says nothing, his eyes glimmering mirthfully. Anneliese just rolls her eyes and flings the fridge open, scanning inside before slamming it shut again. “Daniel, leave her alone. And I don’t think we had any nutritional yeast to begin with. I’m done.” She strides out, skirt still swishing around her heels— Daniel just laughs and turns back to Chiara.

“Sorry about that! We usually get along just fine,” he says, a good-natured smile on his face. “I’m assuming you’re Roberto’s Chiara?”

“I—” Any of the vitriol and irritation she had before falls away, and her voice drops small and meek. “Yeah.”

“Nice to meet you, I’m Daniel!” Mercifully, he doesn’t hold out a hand to shake, just waves. “Did you just eat? Need help with the dishes?”

_God, I didn’t even think about the dishes. Now I feel shitty. I have to do them now, right?_

“Is Isabel mad at me?” she finds herself saying— gulps it all back as soon as she realizes the words that came out. 

Daniel frowns, contemplative, and she stumbles to backtrack.

“No, I just— I didn’t mean that, I,” she says, gathering her plate and the dirty bowls on the counter to bring to the sink. “I’m—”

“Struggling to adjust?” Daniel helpfully supplies, reaching over to take some of the bowls off her hands, turning on the tap to fill two plastic tubs in the sink. “I wouldn’t worry about it—”

“I’m not struggling,” Chiara says with a surge of vehemence. “ And I didn’t mean any of that.”

Daniel pulls out a container of bleach from under the sink, pouring a little into one of the tubs. “That’s fine,” he says, the epitome of chill. “So I’ll wash these, and you can sanitize and dry them?”

Chiara gulps down her words and rolls up her sleeves. They wash dishes for a while in silence, and everything is fine and normal again until Daniel clears his throat and looks up from the pan he’s scrubbing.

“You know, Isabel is just like that. She just wants to be nice. Whatever you did, it was probably just a shock, because she looked alright five minutes ago. She has a thicker skin than you think.”

Chiara lets out a sigh she didn’t even know she was holding, long and pained. _No, I was just an asshole._ “Sure.”

Daniel chuckles, passes her the pan. “Really, what’d you do? Say something rude?”

“I— I just can’t be a normal person,” Chiara mutters spitefully, staring down at her soapy hands, the words leaking out bit by bit. “She was being normal, I was just being irritating. And I was being irritating all of yesterday too. I just don’t give a fuck, until I do, and—”

Daniel’s _really_ looking at her now. _Too much. Too much, rewind. Why are you spilling your whole fucking life story to this random guy?_

But he just smiles, gets back to his dishes. “Hey, I get it. We all need to feel a little normal.”

“I don’t need—” But her voice dies out, because it’s not exactly false, really, hasn’t that been what she’s been begging for this whole time? 

“Look, I think you’re alright,” Daniel says. “I get feeling weird about her, but you’ll be fine. Tell you what—” he hands her the last bowl, cracks his knuckles with a smile— “We can go do some of that landscaping Anna was bothering me about, and you don’t have to see her for now. Hmm?”

“I— sure,” Chiara says, though it’s more of a mumble than anything. She will admit the thought is a nice one: working outside with this stranger who doesn’t seem to mind much, ideally not having to see Isabel for the rest of the day, ideally not having to think about all the times she’s messed up, or Feli alone in that pale blue house driving back and forth from the hospital— the truth is, she feels more comfortable around Daniel, a total stranger, than she has around anyone else in a long time— saying yes to this doesn’t feel like shit, for once.

He’s humming to himself, wiping down the sink and counters. She washes her hands and leans against the back door, waiting, watching.

_I feel like—_

_God, this is so weird. I’m too fucking weird. But he’s— he’s like a TV father I would fantasize about adopting me in seventh grade. He’s like some fictional team dad who would be my favorite member of the found family. Maybe even the older brother mentor who dies early on. But he also can’t be older than thirty, and he’s the literal opposite of a father figure. Does this make me have daddy issues? Am I attracted to him? I feel like I should be attracted to him. I should. I mean, guys who wear makeup… right?_

_You like guys who wear makeup because…?_

_Really,_ should _I feel something about him? He doesn’t look much older. He’s probably not into women. If he is, he definitely has a thing with the other person— Anneliese. I still feel like he’s my father. This is weird. This is so, so weird._

_Daddy issues are a made up concept. You just have issues with all men._

_Well, they’re intimidating. Women are intimidating. Everyone is. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about that._

“Ready?” Daniel says, retying his ponytail. He has a little flower tattooed behind his ear, she notices, a full-blooming pink peony colored so delicately it looks like it’s painted on.

_No intimidation. No fear. Deep breaths. He has a flower tattoo, for God’s sake._

Chiara doesn’t trust her voice to say the right thing right now, so she just nods and follows him out the door, out into the strained sunlight and into the wisping beachgrass.


	7. smoke and ash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Help me  
> I think I'm falling  
> In love with you  
> Are you going to let me go there by myself?  
> That's such a lonely thing to do."  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["Help Me"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=edUhlRxyGOY)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> help me is just the sweetest song ever for this chapter <3
> 
> no CWs for this chapter, really, it's just a lot of Chiara/Isabel doing what they do. btw in my mind the latin trap Isabel's listening to later in the chapter is bad bunny because that man is making straight bangers and it's her vibe? we have to stan
> 
> oh also I went through all the previous chapters and fixed typos (for some reason my spellcheck was turned off...?) so let me know if you catch something bc I am my own editor. had to repost this chapter bc of some issues soo
> 
> anyways this is the longest chapter yet! there's a lot of character moments I love here, please enjoy :)

The work isn’t bad— actually, it’s invigorating to be outside, to trim the grass and bushes around the property, and Daniel doesn’t say much beyond instructing her what to do. They thankfully stay away from the main lodge, instead going all the way down to the inn’s namesake creek that snakes right into the sea to clear out broken branches and overgrowth. The persistent ache in Chiara’s back and legs actually eases as the day goes on. Before she knows it, it’s already three in the afternoon, and all they have left is to clean up around the cabins themselves.

It’s a mild, cool day. The wind is soft in her hair. Daniel insists they take a break first, planting himself down at the very edge of the beach among the rocks and grass in front of Cabin Twelve. Settling down next to him, Chiara tries to keep herself grounded, staring out at the ocean and gripping the sandy rock she’s sitting on, feeling the dry grit against her palms.

_I’m real. I’m here. I’m alright._

“Doing okay so far?” Daniel says, leaning back with a mild smile.

“I’m fine,” Chiara replies. “Are you supposed to do this every day?”

Daniel snorts, closes his eyes. “Sure. I don’t, though, but that’s pretty obvious. I do stuff, I just help out in other places. Honestly, we technically have jobs and roles, but they don’t really mean anything… I mean, a lot of smaller B&Bs are run by some old couple that has to do all the cooking and cleaning and maintenance. It’s kind of part of the job to do a little bit of everything. Ours is just bigger. More people, same concept.”

“...But nobody else is doing any of the outdoor maintenance?”

“Well, Isabel actually _is_ busy cooking,” Daniel says, “Roberto was always busy with managing guests and running the money side of things and a billion other tasks. Anneliese—”

He stops and grins as if he’s thinking of something funny before continuing. “Well, she’s fussy about it, but she also has… a compromised constitution. Working outdoors is not for her. Mostly, she cleans rooms and helps out in the kitchen— oh, she’s always the only one working at nights, so she ends up cleaning up a lot of messes. Technically, she was supposed to help take people places too, but that immediately went to me as soon as we started.”

Chiara picks at her cuticles, glancing up at the pale sky. “Sounds irritating.”

Daniel laughs and shrugs. “I guess. I’ve known Anna since we were kids, though. She’s my best friend. And we really do get along most of the time. Moreso than…”

He trails off, leaning his head on his hands. He looks— wistful, content, calm, at peace. Loving. Chiara opens her mouth to ask, closes it because _that’s inappropriate,_ opens her mouth again because _fuck it, I don’t care._

“So are you two, you know—” She does that awkward, meaningless handwave that feels mandatory in these kinds of situations. 

Daniel doesn’t laugh again or laugh it off, like she expects— just smiles that equally mandatory half-smile that isn’t really a smile, and his hands fall to his sides, defeated yet restless.

“Honestly? It’s complicated,” he says. “She has things she wants. I’m in a different place about the things I want. It’s a lot. There’s a lot that goes into it.”

Chiara can’t help scoffing. Suddenly, he seems much less paternal, much more like a lost teenager. “It’s just a yes or no question. You sound ridiculous.”

Daniel’s smile turns into a real one, and he leans back again. “Yeah. I guess I do.”

By the time late afternoon comes and goes, they’re all finished— Chiara goes back to her room after twenty minutes of waiting outside for Daniel to confirm Isabel’s not in the lodge, because she’s a coward, because she’s actually kind of tired from the day’s work and wants to sleep— really, she’s not unhappy with doing this daily. Daniel had mentioned keeping track of the tide pools, taking guests crabbing or fishing, shopping and repairs and all kinds of miscellaneous yet essential things here and there to do, and they sound good. They sound easy. They sound like she can use them to keep herself out of the Quill as much as possible.

_Really, what else am I supposed to do?_

_It’s weird, Feli said it was urgent for someone to help out— it doesn’t seem super busy right now, though? Or is this just the calm before the storm? Am I just slacking and unaware?_

_Can I really avoid everything for the next few months?_

It’s just been the first day, and she already feels completely out of it, like the reality of it all hasn’t fully started sinking in. Working outside with Daniel was grounding, comforting. Still, she can’t put together feelings beyond a deep, vague sense of _what now?_

Well, she’s fucked up any kind of friendliness from Isabel— she’s befriended Daniel, which she can’t truly feel happy about, not when she’s prone to said fuckups the way babies are prone to crying— she has a job again, she’s not with her brother, she’s not hungry, even though she’s only eaten those crepes today and it’s past when she normally eats dinner, she’s doing _something,_ but it all feels like a stranger crawling into her own body. It doesn’t feel normal. It doesn’t feel like anything. It feels like she’s an empty shell performing emotions and actions, like she’s a narcissist parent manipulating her own self.

Chiara flops down on her bed, covers her eyes with her hands, but can’t get herself to cry or feel anything. Moving feels like a thing of the past. She lies there for a while. _Dissociate until you explode. Great plan._

* * *

It’s almost terrifying to think of getting back up. Finally opening her eyes is a disorienting experience, and the shadows in the room stretch wide and uneasy. Checking her phone, she realizes she’s been lying there half-asleep for _three hours—_ it’s nine now, and it’s dark outside, and when she sits up her whole body rings with numbness. 

_It’s been a full day. What the hell. And I’m still not hungry or thirsty._

Moving is harder than it should be. Getting up is a strain on her entire body. Looking outside at that dark, cold beach feels too unforgiving, staying in bed feels impossible in her numbness— so she opens the door as quietly as she can manage, slipping out into the hallway.

A dim wash of light bleeds in from the main room, along with some light chatter from who she presumes are guests, tinting the hallway with that shade of late-night nostalgia. 

_Where to… What should I even do?_ Going out there is a hard pass, and the chances of running into the staff are way too high. Maybe she should just go outside for a bit. The doors around her seem to loom larger than life, feeling uncomfortably unfamiliar— there’s Isabel’s room, two rooms across the hall, one room further back at the end of the hall— 

_Is that… Roberto’s room?_

Chiara finds herself moving toward it, trying the door before she can convince herself otherwise, holding her breath as it swings open.

She closes it behind her and flips the light switch on— it’s a nice room, bigger than hers but still cozy and warm-feeling— the bed is made, and everything is clean, as if he’s going to burst in any minute with a booming laugh and a glass of wine. The thought makes her feel the tiniest twinge of hurt. She doesn’t really know why she came here. She starts looking around anyway.

The closet is full of clothes, shoeboxes and novels under the bed, his toiletries still in the bathroom. There’s an orchid in a glossy black flower pot on the windowsill that hasn’t died yet. 

_Someone probably cleans and takes care of his room._

_It feels like him, still._

Chiara has the inexplicable urge to curl up on top of the bed, to just lie there and be alone with the ghost of her grandfather in this room, soak up the silence until she’s heavy and tired with it.

_That’s ridiculous, he’s still alive. Where’s the ghost?_

Something catches her eye as she pokes around: framed photos, lining the desk in the corner, several on the nightstand as well.

They’re all photos of _her._ Her and Feli, some of them so old she can’t remember what they’re from, some of them surprisingly recent. There aren’t any featuring anyone else. It’s just Chiara and Feliciano Vargas, tiny toddlers in the garden, middle schoolers squinting at the camera, Feli at some college party, a candid of Chiara she has no recollection of (probably from Feli’s photography phase), over a dozen pictures of just them.

Actually, one of the pictures is incredibly familiar— it’s from a family reunion when she was a high school junior, the last time she saw her extended family before she dropped out— she and Feli are side by side, Feli smiling, Chiara flat-faced.

_Our parents hung this up in the living room. I remember now— they framed it, nitpicked it. The mother kept saying how miserable I looked—_

_But they were in the picture._ Because the photo she’s holding right now is just her and Feli, the top snipped off, the place where the father’s hand had been on Feli’s shoulder meticulously trimmed out so there’s a chunk missing. Closer examination of the other photos shows her the same thing, that careful pruning of any evidence their parents ever existed in their lives— 

The sound of the doorknob twisting immediately freezes her up. Isabel walks in, stops, and they stare at each other as if Chiara’s been caught dissecting a corpse red-handed, a churning, difficult silence.

“Um—” Chiara starts.

And then she stops, because it’s clear there’s nothing she has to say, hunched over a picture in a dead man’s room.

_Not dead. He’s not dead. Ghosts can’t haunt you if they’re not even dead._

“You—” Isabel bites her lip, her voice soft. “You didn’t have dinner.”

“Not hungry,” Chiara says, truthful for once, even though it sounds like a lie, and she clears her throat. “Anyways. Why are you here.”

Isabel frowns. “Well, I saw the light on? I could ask you the same.”

Chiara acutely realizes just how frustration-less her thoughts are in this moment, how tired she feels, how heavy her walls are on her shoulders, and coming up with something rude and raging feels impossible. Defeating. She slumps into Roberto’s office chair and puts the photo back on the desk.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I was just looking.”

Isabel smiles at her, tentative and kind. “Well, he really cares about you two.”

“Of course he does,” Chiara says, scoffing. “Look at all these damn pictures.”

Isabel actually laughs at that. Chiara presses down the smile threatening to rise up on her face in return, leaning back in the chair.

“I really meant it when I said I respected him a lot,” Isabel says, and she sits down on the bed to face Chiara. “Honestly, I came in because I’m usually the one cleaning and dusting his room. I want— I want him to come back to things being normal.”

“I…” Chiara starts. “Honestly, I keep thinking about him as if he’s already dead.”

Isabel laughs ruefully, kicks off her shoes, and folds up her legs on the bed. “Honestly? Me too. I’m scared. I don’t know what to do. So I clean his room, and I visit when I can.”

She looks up and smiles. Her voice is vulnerable, soft, cutting through Chiara’s heart, dissolving those heavy chains of cynicism. She opens her mouth despite herself, the thoughts in her head forming on her tongue—

“He cut our parents out of every picture,” she says. “Every single one. Not just their heads, but their hands, their legs, any… indication of their existence. Reality.”

“Are they…” Isabel pauses, seeming like she’s trying to find a delicate way to phrase it.

“Well, they’re shitty people who completely deserve it, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Isabel laughs, relief coloring her voice, and Chiara feels her chest constrict. She just sounds so… happy. _And I made her laugh like that. That’s crazy. I can do things like that, when I’m not being the biggest pain in the ass, when I feel like being normal. Crazy shit._

“Well, that’s Roberto,” Isabel says, leaning her chin into her hand with a far-off smile. “He’s good. No exaggeration, working for him has been the best time of my life.”

“What, was it that bad before?” Chiara says it despite herself, lets herself laugh at her own joke, and Isabel _laughs with her._

_When the hell is the last time that happened, other than with Feli?_

“Honestly? Kind of,” Isabel says. “My parents are really devout Catholics— they’re… judgy, too. We just don’t get along. But I didn’t really have an out from Newport, I couldn’t exactly move out, so working here really is the best possible thing.”

“Tell me about it,” Chiara says, rolling her eyes. “Crazy Catholic parents. Grew up in the middle of nowhere. What a fucking nightmare.”

“Oh, where?”

“Rural Iowa.”

“Jeez, let me guess… corn?”

And now Chiara finds herself laughing, a real laugh, not a short chuckle or sarcastic snicker, but an honest-to-God laugh.

“Yeah. Corn. Lots of driving, lots of Republicans, everything is just really fucking flat? I can’t remember a time I liked it there, ever. And that’s not counting anything with the parents.”

Isabel nods, thoughtful, her face open and bright. “I get that. Honestly, I like some parts of Newport? I like the sea, I like all the people I’ve known my whole life, I like being in Oregon. But my parents are problematic, and it’s hard to be far away from…”

She frowns, fiddles with the necklace on her chest— _God, that necklace—_ before continuing.

“Away from a lot of people, I guess. New friends are hard. Dating is impossible. And the weather on the coast is just miserable. The water is always freezing, it’s always cloudy or raining and ten degrees colder than the rest of the state…”

_Dating— of course, who the hell is she going to date out here? Men in small towns are always shitty unless they’re closeted or about to move out. I should fucking know._

“That’s another reason why I appreciate working here,” Isabel says, and she leans back all the way so she’s lying flat on the bed facing the ceiling. Her hair fans around her head, soft and full, parting around her face in waves. “I keep busy, and I’ve been friends with Daniel and Anneliese for a long time. And Roberto has always— um, accepted me, which is more than I can say about my parents.”

“Oh,” Chiara says, because there’s something tenuous behind those words that strains at her, something that makes her pulse jump and twitch like a wounded animal. “Oh, that’s good.”

“Yeah,” Isabel says, and Chiara can’t really see her face, but that _thing_ is still lingering, hovering, then:

“I’m a lesbian, so.”

_Oh._

Chiara can’t make her mouth respond immediately, her whole brain flooding with _say that’s cool or something so she doesn’t think you’re a homophobe, say something, say something,_ her chest pounding with that thing, everything spinning around in her head in a cloud of _what the fuck_.

“Oh, I see,” she finally says, trying to make it as normal and fine as possible. “That’s good. That— I mean, it’s good he’s— yeah. He’s always been good about stuff like that. It was the same for Feli— yeah.”

Isabel chuckles, sitting up a little to look at her. “Yeah. All good. He’s a good guy. You’re really lucky.”

 _Selfish, impossible, painful, worthless— but lucky._ Chiara swallows and averts her eyes to the stack of novels on her left.

“Yeah,” she manages to get out. “Lucky.”

“I—” Isabel says, and now the expression on her face seems to mirror Chiara’s thoughts. “Honestly, I feel… guilty. About the stroke. I wanted to apologize to you and Feli, actually, I really should have— I should have checked in on him sooner. And I should have known he was—”

Everything in Chiara shifts in that sudden moment, her thoughts spinning with every implication of what’s being said, and it enrages her, really. It enrages her to hear someone take responsibility for things out of their control, to take responsibility as easily as people shirk away from it. Chiara knows she’s a failure, and she knows she causes pain. The crucial difference is that people are actually affected by her actions, because you can’t make someone have a stroke. You can’t make someone have an accident. You can’t ever fully prevent hurt or death, either. Even with heart attacks, you can shock someone into a heart attack, but the _fundamental circumstances_ of that person’s body are out of your control, and you can’t clog someone’s arteries for them. You just can’t erase every glass of wine, every cigarette, every injury and trauma from someone’s body— this is the truth.

“He had a stroke,” she says, and her voice is firmer than she ever thought possible. “Whatever you didn’t do, it doesn’t matter, because that was his body doing that. You have nothing to do with it.”

Isabel blinks, her mouth opening a little, surprise coloring her face.

“Oh,” she says at last. “Oh, thanks. I guess so.”

Her voice is so soft. Chiara wants to pummel something. _I’m just saying the truth. You don’t have to—_

_Look at me like that. Talk to me like that. I’m just saying what I feel. I’m just thinking random thoughts. It’s nothing. You can’t just… do that. You can’t tell me what you told me, then sit here and stare at me with that look, because we’re just sitting here, staring at each other right now, not saying a word, and I just want._

_I want._

_I want this to go away._

_I want this to stop._

_I want this to keep going._

It’s unbearable, to just sit there with those soft, pliable words floating between them. Chiara thinks about the necklace, that citrusy, woody perfume, all of her own biting words and sullen glances. Unbearable. Impossible.

“I’m sorry, actually,” she finds herself saying, “I should be apologizing, for everything—”

“You’re fine,” Isabel says, and she starts to smile. “We’re both fine. No apologizing. You’re great, thank you. Don’t worry about it. Oh, and your earrings today are really nice!”

“Oh,” Chiara says. Then, “Oh,” and suddenly a frantic rush overtakes her as soon as she realizes just how far this conversation has gone, a million thoughts drenching her— 

Before Chiara even realizes what she’s doing, she’s already stumbled up out of the office chair and rushed halfway to the door, her neck and face burning, because apparently she can keep her cool with everything else but the earrings are _just too much._

“Bye, thanks, goodnight,” she calls behind her as she opens the door, heart pounding, palms sweating at just how awkward this is and how fucking _weird_ she looks.

“Oh— goodnight!” Isabel’s voice calls back, right as Chiara shuts the door behind her. Then she rushes to her room, locks the door, and throws herself onto the bed as hard as she possibly can.

_She was so—_

_Her voice. That same softness. That same—_

_I can’t deal with this. I just haven’t had a compliment in a long time. It’s just scary. It’s just weird. I put on these earrings_ for her. _God, I literally did. What was I hoping for? Why am I suddenly… God. God, I’m a fucking disaster, I really am, and I said goodnight to her again, I must have looked so irritating._

_And I reacted so badly when she told me she was a—_

Chiara swallows, heavy and full of too many feelings to process.

_It wasn’t bad, though. It wasn’t— it was almost good, if you can use that word. It was alright. I had a real conversation with her. I told her about the parents. I told her about growing up. She told me about her parents, and about growing up. She told me it was hard to date._

_God, because she’s a_ lesbian, _isn’t it?_

Chiara unhooks her earrings, peels herself off of the bed and out of her clothes, and crawls under the comforter. It’s almost ten. Normally she’d be up until two, but sleeping right now feels like the most right thing to do— she doesn’t think she can stay awake with everything roiling up in her head for much longer.

_It’s the first day. What a fucking rollercoaster._

Sleep comes easier than it has in years, it seems. Outside, it starts to rain, the hush of raindrops blanketing her in soft noise.

* * *

Getting up the next morning feels significantly easier than it has, for some reason— the sky is clouded over today, but the bed already feels less like a hotel bed and more like a part of something that’s hers, _her_ bed in _her_ room with her own self in it.

And it’s barely seven, just like yesterday. She’s never been a morning person without a lot of coffee, and it’s more than disorienting to see the time on her phone, the weak morning light shining through the gaps in the curtains as she gets ready.

_It’s probably just the slight jet lag. Feels weird to wake up at a productive time. Feels even weirder to get out of bed and properly dressed within twenty minutes— it’s like I’m Feli or something. Crazy what being emotionally exhausted and actually sleeping at night can do for you._

She finishes putting her hair half-up and walks out, locking the door and making her way out to the main room. The fireplace is cold, and the room is empty with the exception of the same man from the previous morning, back with another crossword and cup of tea— this time, he actually looks up and spots her, raising an eyebrow and a hand.

Chiara’s frozen for a second, because _who is this man and why is he waving at me— wait, I’m part of the staff, I have to— shit!_

It’s as if her brain isn’t fully processing what he’s doing or what she needs to do back, and she finally settles on a quick nod before ducking into the kitchen with that familiar fire threatening to explode across her face. _I’m an embarrassment to this establishment. Dear God. Chiara, please say hello back next time, I never want to do that again._

She opens the kitchen door, and there’s a few things going on: Isabel’s at the stove, facing away from the door, and she’s wearing a scoop neck shirt with her hair up. The nape of her neck is exposed. The whole kitchen smells sweet and buttery. A phone on the counter is blasting Latin trap, the beat heavy and slurring— she sways along to the music, humming and mumbling to herself as she makes what looks like French toast, soaking slices of bread in a big bowl and frying them. The music itself is… well, Spanish is far from Chiara’s strong suit, but it’s very clearly—

Explicit. Very sexual. Horny bastard music. Extremely uncomfortable for her to be standing there as Isabel twists her hips side to side, sings along to a particularly punchy line, and turns around to look Chiara directly in the face.

“Oh, hey!” Isabel says, spatula in her hand and smile on her face. “Good morning, I didn’t hear you come in! Sleep well?”

Chiara takes deep breaths and focuses on remaining as calm and fluster-free as she can. “Uh, it was fine. I was going to see…” She gestures to herself and the rest of the kitchen helplessly.

Isabel perks up, that idea-lightbulb almost popping up above her head, and she turns to slide a piece of French toast onto a baking sheet before responding.

“I’m good on help with cooking breakfast, but I was going to talk to you about something, actually,” she says, and _oh God, here we go. Is it about me? Am I getting fired? Wouldn’t blame anybody for that one._

Isabel clears her throat. “So I’m not sure how much Daniel told you about how we run the Quill, but I figured I should give you a rundown of what we need from you and our image and all that— basically, we kind of, sort of, really desperately need a managerial, jack of all trades type of position, and since you’re essentially Roberto’s temp right now—”

“You want me to be your manager,” Chiara cuts in, a frown creeping up on her face already. “Have you even looked at my resume?”

“Roberto, actually, uh.” Isabel chuckles nervously. “One of the things he specified was you or Feli working in his position if anything happened, if it was possible. You, mostly. And I’m… supposed to train you?”

_That crazy old man. Did he really think—_

Chiara can’t even make a coherent noise come out of her mouth, just a scraggly sigh that catches in her throat. “Please just look at my resume,” she eventually says, her head straining. “I’ll send it to you. You can just keep doing what you’ve been doing to manage the Quill, because I am a thousand percent unqualified to be anybody’s manager, I dropped out of high school, I haven’t had a steady job f—”

“Well, it’s your job now. We _need_ a manager who hasn’t known the other staff since kindergarten. And I believe in you!” Isabel says, the sheepishness replaced with mischief and a dazzling smile that convinces Chiara she really is needed for one brief second. 

Isabel continues with that same sparkling tone, turning to flip her French toast every so often, going over each word like she’s reciting a manifesto.

“Anyways, you’ll be checking in with guests the most, since the rest of us are usually too busy for it— you need to assess what’s going on in general, what the staff needs to do to accommodate— our business model is bed and breakfast, so service needs to be personal. Our whole deal is a luxury experience that skews personal, actually, so food, lodging, accommodations, they all need to be _nice._ We get a lot of older, richer clients, businesses that send senior members for retreats, couples who are treating themselves, that kind of thing, so the hospitality aspect is especially important.”

Chiara just stands there, dumbfounded, silent, because _this is the opposite of what I signed up for. It’s just getting more and more ridiculous. Being nice to boomers is the opposite of my strong suit, but that’s apparently what this job is supposed to be? I thought I was washing dishes and mowing lawns? I thought—_

“I’m sure you’ve worked service before,” Isabel says, seemingly noticing the exact expression on Chiara’s face and nodding when it deepens into a scowl. “Same thing, really, you just have to consider a few more things about guests, get to know them better—”

She pauses, slides the full tray of French toast in the oven, then pulls out a cutting board and a packet of sausages. “Like, Roberto would do alarm calls for anyone who asked, get to know guests at meals, arrange travel plans, that kind of stuff, along with bookkeeping and staff management. You really end up helping out wherever you’re needed, it just so happens that you’re more of the… face? Of the Quill? And having a third party to wrangle us staff and assign shifts is pretty key.”

 _I literally can’t. Why is running a bed and breakfast so damn complicated_ is Chiara’s first thought. _This is so much more of a job for Feli than it ever will be for me_ is a close second.

Her silence is filled by the throb of the bass from Isabel’s music and the throb of her confounded heartbeat in her ears. Isabel just pops on that smile and turns back to the counter, slicing each sausage in half and laying them in the hot pan.

It’s just a lot to handle. All of it. 

With a start, Chiara realizes exactly how close she is, exactly how much she’s been slowly inching toward Isabel over the last few minutes— not too close, but close enough to see a flash of a tattoo on her side when her shirt rides up.

 _Oh, God. Get out. Get out._ “So what should I be doing right now,” Chiara says, immediately relocating herself ten feet away.

Isabel flips a sausage, a savory sizzle rising in the air, before turning to talk to her. “Well, I haven’t set the table yet… including staff, we’ll have ten people today. Everyone gets a plate, fork, knife, spoon, napkin, glass, and mug. Actually, everything’s right in that cabinet and labeled and everything—” here she turns to gesture at a cabinet that is, indeed, labeled with “Tableware” in a generic font— “Oh, by the way, are you eating with us?”

_She’s just going to… ask me?_

_What the hell am I supposed to say to that? I…_

_I don’t want to eat with everyone. I definitely, truly don’t. But if I say I don’t want to she’ll give me that fucking look again, and I don’t want that either. And I’m supposed to be the manager and actually know people. But if I say yes I have to sit with other people and use my words which everyone knows I literally can’t do. But if I—_

_She asked you, right? People don’t ask unless they don’t know the answer._

_I hate this. I don’t want to do this._ “I’m fine,” she says at last, reaching up to open the cabinet and set out the correct number of everything.

“Okay! That’s fine,” Isabel says, and Chiara whips her head around on instinct to see Isabel direct a big smile in her direction instead of that pleading look, reaching over to grab one of the plates Chiara’s taken out. “Hey, I’ll just make you a plate?”

“Oh,” Chiara says. It feels like her throat is pinched shut all of a sudden at that smile, those words. “Oh, sure.”

And she snatches up the plates and cutlery and napkins in one big bundle and hurries out of the kitchen, a sudden and mysterious kind of embarrassment coming over her as she lays everything down on the dining table, counting places to set— _I still need to get glasses and mugs, shit. Later. When I’m not about to burn up to a crisp and die._

She’s laid out all the plates when she finally calms down enough to let her focus fall away and look up around the main room. The man from before is still there, accompanied by a kid who looks like a preteen at the latest— he’s looking over the man’s shoulder and talking up a storm.

_Father and son, maybe?_

“Oh, and thirteen-down is S-O-N-I-C, sonic,” the kid says, his voice light and scalding with a British accent. “Like some waves from _eccentric_ icons, that’s what the clue says, it’s _so_ obviously an anagram. It’s as easy and short as it gets, sonic to I-C-O—”

“Dear God,” the man groans, his voice heavy with the same accent, tossing the pen over to his maybe-son and slumping back in his chair. “Just do the damn crossword for me, will you, Peter?”

“My pleasure,” Peter responds, sticking out his tongue with a smarmy grin before plopping down in the adjacent seat and snatching the crossword.

 _Gumption. I respect it._ Chiara can’t help smirking to herself as she sets out the rest of the plates and the utensils. By the time she’s folding the last napkin, Peter finishes his furious scribbling and throws the magazine into his maybe-father’s lap.

“Finished, old man!” he crows, flopping back into his chair with the ultimate triumph on his face.

“Congratulations, genius,” is the response he gets, sardonic and accompanied with a heavy eyeroll, but it doesn’t seem malicious or cruel— actually, it just seems like they’re…

_Friends. What kind of father is that?_

Chiara heads back into the kitchen, braces herself for another hefty dose of Isabel incoming, and she gets it in full force: Isabel’s back to her music, chopping fruit and singing carelessly. The cups and mugs Chiara needs are all laid out on a couple trays on the counter. The whole kitchen smells like French toast and smoked sausage. Isabel’s wearing shorts that Chiara has somehow not noticed this whole time, shorts that are, well, short.

“I got your cups for you,” Isabel says cheerily, popping a piece of melon in her mouth. “Everything good so far?”

“Uh, yeah,” Chiara mumbles. “About that man and the kid out there—”

“Oh, that’s just his uncle,” Isabel says, seemingly reading her mind. “They’re really cool, actually! Mr. Kirkland is a cryptic crossword setter, the ones that are all about wordplay, not just normal crosswords. Which is such a crazy job, really, and Peter’s like… his guinea pig? They’re always solving those crosswords together. They’re both crazy smart, and Peter’s only twelve, but it’s like the words and letters just…” 

Isabel gestures out a loose spiral with her hands, frowning lightly. “It’s like they just swim together in his brain and he picks them out. I didn’t know a human being could be that good at processing and sorting and repacking. It’s like he’s his own assembly line.”

Chiara snorts. “Yeah. He finished off the one his uncle was doing in five minutes. I can’t even _look_ at a normal crossword.”

“I know, right?” Isabel says, a laugh lingering in her voice, full of a sweetness that makes Chiara’s head sing. “Really, we get the most interesting guests here— when you’re more comfortable, talking to the good ones is so fun.”

_When you’re more comfortable. God, that makes me—_

_More uncomfortable? More confused? More at peace?_

She just nods mutely. Isabel finishes cutting up her cantaloupe, stretching her fingers lightly before continuing. “You know, it's crazy. I was talking to Peter yesterday, and he was explaining one of those clues to me, and it’s like— everything has a double meaning, abbreviation, anagram, all in these little insignificant bits and pieces that all come together into a thing that has meanings on top of meanings— every letter has its own meaning, every word has a few. It’s amazing. It’s almost profound if you want to think about it as a metaphor. And to think up that web of meanings as a _job—_ oh, sorry, am I keeping you?”

Chiara is snapped out of her reverie and refocuses her eyes to see Isabel turned to her, her face bright and eyes glimmering.

“No!” she says, and it comes out more adamant than she expects, because it’s the truth. “No, it’s fine.”

_It’s really more than fine. That was actually… really interesting. She’s really interesting. She’s really cool and smart. I never would have thought of it like that. And she looks so— happy, or excited, or something like that—_

_It was nice to hear you talk_ is what she wants to say. But her mouth won’t cooperate, so she settles on a vigorous nod, her cheeks already burning, her hands clutching the tray for dear life.

Isabel laughs nervously, leaning over to the sink to wash her hands. “Oh, good, I just— I don’t know, I think a lot. I have a lot of feelings and opinions about a lot of things. If that makes sense.”

Chiara really can’t help the smile that comes to her face or the words that come out now. “I mean, I have to have an opinion about every single thing, but mine are all shitty—”

“Okay, I’m sure that’s _not_ true—”

“Try it. Ask me my opinion about anything. Literally anything.”

Isabel laughs. “Um, this strawberry.” She fishes out a strawberry from the bowl on the counter, and that _laugh_ feels like Chiara’s injecting Red Bull intravenously, a sudden hit of confidence and spark jumping up into her and propelling her to immediately talk back with as much dry wit as she can possibly muster.

“Misshapen and the stem is uglier than average, but I’ll give it a six for the color alone.”

Isabel giggles again, delighted, almost triumphant. “Okay, the metal counter.”

“Aesthetics are fucked and it’s clearly just utilitarian, but it’s good at being utilitarian. Five.”

“The Democratic party’s mascot?”

“It’s a literal ass. Next.”

Isabel breaks into a full, bursting kind of laugh— a real laugh— and it makes Chiara just _explode,_ really. _Those were literally just my opinions. I wasn’t kidding. But I said them, and I said them right, and it made her laugh._

_She just looks so happy._

Isabel bites her lip like she’s trying to stop herself from bursting open again. “Okay. Let’s see. Nabokov’s _Lolita.”_

“Never read it since I’m illiterate, the concept is gross, and Nabokov is inherently a bad name.”

“You—” Isabel grins. “I can’t believe you. Fine, what about me?”

Instantly all the confidence evaporates and leaves Chiara’s pulse pounding empty in her ears, because _what am I supposed to say? You’re attractive and normal and relatable and smart and interesting and I think I just want to be you? I’m equally intimidated and drawn to you? I never want to talk to you but I also want to be around you all the time?_

_What the hell does any of this even mean?_

“I—” Chiara stumbles, pauses, wishes the expectant glimmer in Isabel’s eyes would swallow her whole. “You’re… you’re fine.”

Isabel fist-pumps, mouthing a silent _yes!_ that sets Chiara’s entire face on fire, and she can’t deal with any of this anymore, really, so she grabs the tray of cups with a heave.

“Anyways, I’m just going to…” She slowly backs up, inclining her head toward the door.

Isabel gives her a thumbs up and a smile. “Okay, I’ll leave that plate for you!”

 _God. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe this is me._ She’s so close to the door, so close to being able to just breathe, when Isabel clears her throat.

“Oh, I know you met Anneliese and Daniel, and I know you worked outside yesterday, but since you’ll be doing managerial stuff for real now— I need to show you all the ins and outs after breakfast, so stick around?”

_More Isabel time. More time… with Isabel. God, it’s like I’m an ancient laptop that can’t run more than two tabs without fucking exploding. I can’t believe this._

“O-okay,” Chiara says, and she goes and finishes setting the table with a chirping, restless feeling that threatens to devour her whole.


	8. shaking off futility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And the power of reason  
> And the flowers of deep feeling  
> Seem to serve me  
> Only to deceive me."  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["Song For Sharon"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ON3SPq2w1pA)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is on the painful side, CWs include: mentions of trauma, bullying, and assault; dissociation and mental instability; self-hatred/suicidality; and general repression of said trauma. nothing explicit, I'm mostly trying to express these more difficult thoughts via emotions rather than direct facts for both accuracy and legibility. also, to reiterate what I said in a previous a/n, make sure you take what Chiara's saying with a grain of salt bc she is very much the opposite of well-adjusted. next chapter will be a little more lively both in terms of less net suffering and more character interactions, so look out for that!
> 
> side note the food they eat in this chapter is SO good? strongly suggest it. tbh if you have feelings about food or thoughts about what they should eat next, you should tell me so I can cook it for myself and proceed to describe it in lavish detail in this fic. thank you very much.
> 
> expect an update by this weekend, please enjoy :)

The rest of the day passes similarly— that fluttering in Chiara’s stomach just keeps hovering around, distinct but blurring its borders with anxiety, something she chalks up to unfamiliarity. Isabel shows her everything she could possibly dream up: the ins and outs of the electronic filing systems, where everything is in the kitchen and freezer and storage closets, the electrical board and backup generator, every expectation for guests, every piece of information to give and retain— by the time it’s all done, it’s already early afternoon.

On Chiara’s part: she eats a slice of rye with peanut butter and a piece of leftover French toast for lunch. She rehearses every word one would ever need to say to a guest. She spends way too long reworking the shift schedule so it actually makes sense (was Roberto writing this thing _during his stroke?_ ) and by the time night falls and she’s back in her room, that unease hasn’t faded, just assimilated into her brain.

 _This is just the new normal, huh,_ she thinks, _I work, I eat alone in the kitchen and pretend it’s all normal and good and nobody else is real, then I go back to my room and think about how much of a nervous failure I am. Not very new of me._

_I just keep—_

_I just keep not doing stuff. I’m doing it but at the same time I feel so unproductive. I feel useless here. And now I’m a fucking manager? I have so many responsibilities and I need to pick up how to run the website and rework the credit card payment system and review all the zoning laws— I have no clue how much more of this I can sit through. And I definitely can’t ignore all the guests and eat by myself forever._

Really, the degree of inadequacy fizzing up in her is astounding. It’s beyond imposter syndrome, because you have to actually be _good_ at the thing to have imposter syndrome about it, otherwise it’s just… realizing how much you suck.

 _And I do. I really do. I don’t even want to start_ thinking _about any of it, much less about Isabel and Feli and everyone else._

It’s another early night. She’s in a thin t-shirt and old men’s sweatpants stolen from an ex, but when she opens the sliding door, the beach feels like exactly the right temperature— calm, cooling breeze tickling her face, inviting her outside.

The sky is mostly clouded over, a couple blotches of moon and sky peeking out in a few places. The ocean feels a lot quieter than it’s been before, and any lights in the lodge facing the beach are off, so if she focuses on the shore and horizon it feels like she’s all alone in the world. It’s a frail feeling, like a soap bubble stretched thin around her. The sand is cool and slightly damp under her feet. She starts walking.

It’s as if the sky is buzzing around her, ambient noises all amplifying in the dark like a swarm of night buzzing around her head. It’s peaceful, and it’s beautiful, and—

_God, I’m miserable._

_I went outside to clear my head. And now it’s like there’s way too much room up there, so I guess I have to overcompensate and pump in as much self-loathing as I possibly can, instead of enjoying the beach, breathing in the night air, listening to the ocean, whatever._

She thuds down onto the sand, and she leans back and splays her arms and legs like she’s about to make a sand angel. She looks up at the sky. She thinks about meditating, or yoga, or aromatherapy, or anything that could possibly be calming and normal. 

_You know, it’s sad how often I have this moment. It’s sad how ugly this gets. It’s sad how difficult I am, all the time, it’s sad that I let this happen to myself, it’s sad that I let them—_

_It’s sad how much I fucking pity myself. It’s revolting. God, I want to vomit._

The sand starts to feel less like cooling comfort and more like an unforgiving sheet of rock against her back. She really does, well, feel _bad_ for herself— it’s a horrible thing to look in the face. It’s self-centered but self-destructive. It’s doublethink, it’s paradoxical, it’s twisted beyond belief. Because, really, how can one reconcile with that selfish _me-me-me_ kind of thinking? How can you love-hate to hate-love yourself? Chiara thinks about something quoted at her a long time ago: “There’s narcissism in self-hatred”. Time spent shitting on yourself is still time spent on yourself.

_It’s like the parents infected me with their delusional parasite. Who knows, next I’ll start screaming at random people on the street and grooming my children. God knows I already project every part of myself I hate onto other people._

_Maybe it’s not their fault, and I just can’t. Feli isn’t exactly traumatizing himself daily._

_This is stupid. Really, I don’t even know what’s happening with me anymore. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t want to think about this for another fucking second._

She forces herself to get up, scrambling to her feet, immediately faceplanting back into the sand as she stands— for a white-hot second there’s nothing but free-falling panic, a gasp of unfiltered fear, before she slams into the ground and gets a face full of sand— _there was a fucking rock, I can’t believe I tripped like that, I can’t believe—_

Standing up again seems to draw attention to every single ache and pain in her body. Taking a step back toward the lodge subsequently draws attention to the throbbing, twisting pain in her right ankle, shooting up her leg and making her hip cramp with effort to take lighter steps.

It’s so embarrassing. It’s so stupid. It hurts like hell. All because she decided to be sad on the beach, because nothing has changed, at _all,_ since that day in the closet. 

_You know what? Consistency is key._

Sliding open the door is a lot. Getting in and out of the shower without slipping and dying is an ordeal, and as she pokes at her swelling ankle it’s increasingly clear: _I am not cut out for this job._

Really, what is she supposed to say to Isabel or the staff? _I was lying on the beach and then I sprained my ankle? I’m too scared to even ask for ice. I can’t do what you’re asking of me. I’m so beyond inadequate for this job, I should have never come here._

Chiara is so, incredibly, truly done. It’s barely ten. She picks herself up, limps out of her room and down the hallway, and hauls herself into Roberto’s room and onto his desk chair. She boots up his computer and types in the password scrawled on the sticky note under the desk. Every action is suddenly full of motivation, like she’s on way too much Adderall, and then she goes on every job-hunting website she can think of and every reputable-looking bed and breakfast message board, writes a complete post offering a position for innkeeper at the Quill Creek Inn, Newport, Oregon, posts it wherever she can—

 _Done. God, I’m done. I’m so done. I’m definitely going to regret this manic moment in a week. I’m so tired._ Now it’s like all the energy has been sucked out of her and into that short listing, saccharine and fake and pleading, begging to be responded to, saying _please God get me out of here._

She limps back to her room, everything jumbled and confused in her head. Sleep does not come easy.

* * *

The next morning, Chiara wakes up later than before, head pounding like she’s just been on a bender and had entirely too much to drink. It’s a complete 180 from the last few days, and the morning sun just feels irritating instead of magical. Everything hurts. Moving her ankle is torturous. _This is already a horrible day, and I haven’t even gotten out of bed._

When she finally manages to change into clothes that look vaguely professional and make it out into the main room, it’s empty and the table is cleared— _they must have already had breakfast, then—_ and the kitchen lights are off.

_Thank God. Hopefully they’re all… not going to be around for a little._

She settles into the computer desk, deciding on doing some research before actually starting to work on their budget, because the most she’s ever done is do her own taxes, and she refuses to sit in Roberto’s room all day just to Google stupid questions on his computer. _As if I don’t feel judged enough by his not-ghost for getting ready to sell this place off to someone else._

_I really did just that, didn’t I._

_Doesn’t matter. It was probably a shitty post anyway. It’ll be a miracle if even one person responds and puts me out of my misery._

She’s halfway through a detailed breakdown of Lincoln County’s zoning laws when a tap on her shoulder makes her whole body spasm hard— she whirls around to see Anneliese, looking even more perfect and polished than the other day, a mild frown on her face.

_God, she’s so tall. What is it about this place that makes everyone tower over me?_

“Oh, am I bothering you?” Anneliese says, pushing her glasses up her nose.

“It’s fine,” Chiara says, probably a little more curtly than necessary, her shoulders feeling rigid and difficult. “What is it?”

Anneliese squints at the screen. “Zoning laws? Is this necessary? Isabel’s showed you all the documents, hasn’t she?”

“Well, yeah, but I want to have my own background on it and verify everything independently.”

“Because…” Anneliese raises an expectant eyebrow, a gesture that somehow sends Chiara into an explosion of rage in her head.

_Because I’m dumb, bitch. I’m stupid. I don’t trust shit. I’m doing things how I do them._

“Because I want to,” she ends up snapping. “So what?”

That damn eyebrow just raises higher. An inexplicable flash of humiliation and frustration bubbles up into Chiara’s throat, everything from the last twenty years of her life suddenly feeling very horrible and permanent and forever fucked, everything from the last week of her life suddenly feeling endlessly torturous. She wants to snap someone’s neck. She wants to punch a hole through the screen and through this stupid article and right under that lifting eyebrow.

_Too much time around frat boys really fucked me in more than one way, huh. Wow, I’m funny._

“Well, I just came over to tell you we’re checking in a big group today,” Anneliese says, gaze turned coolly to the side, her voice sounding insufferably bitchy. “They’re marine biology graduate students, so they’ll probably be spending a lot of time out and about with you or Daniel. Actually, do you want to go over the reservation software right now? Since—”

“I’m fine, Isabel covered it,” Chiara says, cutting and bitter, because spending time with Anneliese right now feels like it’ll be potent suicide fuel. 

_Really, wasn’t she supposed to be interesting, not irritating? Daniel has a thing with her— how can you have a thing with Daniel while somehow making me want to punch myself in the face? I was supposed to actually enjoy being around you— I was going to act like a normal person—_

Anneliese shrugs her cardigan-clad shoulders, dark hair falling in front of her face. “Suit yourself. You’ll probably be handling them— check-in is in an hour.”

_As if I didn’t know that?_

Then she leaves as quickly as she came, streaming up the stairs in a flutter of fabric, and Chiara finds herself moodily glaring at the word _compensation_ on the screen in thick black letters.

_Give me some of that, please. Give me compensation. Give me my whiny, millennial, entitled participation trophy for being alive. Anything. Anything but this._

Her phone on the desk starts to buzz, and chime, and flash Feli’s profile picture and name. For a long moment, she just stares at it— listens to the ringtone like it’s suddenly her favorite song, waits for it to buzz ten times, stares at the picture. She’d taken it a over a year ago, back when she had just moved in and Feli still had some fun in his life. He’s flushed, wine-drunk under yellow street lights, glowing too bright on their walk home for Chiara to not document the occasion, glowing against the dark backdrop of the city.

_Back when Feli still let me drink. Back when he hadn’t found out about everything, back when he was perfectly content with me just being a normal deadbeat rather than complete mistake._

_It’s a good picture. Maybe I did something._

_God, I don’t want to pick this up._

She swipes at the screen, presses the phone to her ear in silence.

“Chiara!” Feli’s voice calls from the other end. “How’s it been? How are you?”

“Fine,” she says. “Why are you calling me?”

He chuckles nervously and umms and errs for a few seconds. “Well, I just wanted to check in on you, really!”

 _So he was lonely and decided to bite the bullet and call me. Wonderful._

A twinge of guilt sticks in her throat. “I’m fine,” she says. “And they made me the manager. We should switch places again.”

Feli laughs, delight coloring his voice, something that sounds so much more normal and comforting. “Really! That sounds so interesting, you must be doing so much—”

“And that’s exactly why we should switch.”

“I’m sure it’s a fun time! Well, how’s Isabel?”

 _Well, I_ really _don’t want to answer this one._ “Don’t get me started,” she says, though it comes out more like a mumble than a real sentence. Feli just giggles, which makes her voice strain a million times harder, muttering because, “I’m _serious,_ Feli, it’s such a pain in the ass, everything here is a pain—”

“I’m happy for you, Chiara, I really am! I’m glad you’re doing things and, you know, having a good time, being out in nature…” He trails off, an unspoken sigh lingering in that silence.

Chiara gulps down any dignity or pride she might have left and clears her throat. “Have you, uh. How’s Roberto.”

“Grandpa’s good! Actually, he’s. I mean, he’s still in a coma, obviously, which isn’t good,” and he dissolves into shaky chuckles, breathes deeply, “but he’s stable. He looks peaceful. Which is good, I guess.”

“You guess,” Chiara says dryly. A smile is already rising on her face before she knows it, a soft and weak twitch of the lips tugging on her, Feli’s canned voice over the phone worming its way into her ear like a radio hook. _God, does being this mentally ill make your brain go soft?_

Feli chuckles, shuffles slightly. “Yeah. Actually, speaking of good news, um, I just w—”

The lodge door pops open, immediately flooding Chiara’s ears with chatter and noise and the sound of rolling suitcases. _Shit, they’re early, I have to be normal, I have to be the brand or whatever—_

“Fuck, I have guests, gotta go,” she hisses into the phone, switching over to the reservation software and stumbling to her feet. A couple of the students trickle in, talking to each other and pointing up at the ceiling.

“Oh, okay, um, bye!” Feli says, that same cramped embarrassment Chiara feels mirrored in his words. “I’ll call you back tonight—”

Chiara hangs up, composes herself, straightens out her hair and blouse. _Be normal. Just pretend. Act. You’re good at that, so just pretend. Put on your customer service face, they’re just a bunch of grad students who are smarter than you’ll ever be, just. Pretend. Swallow it all down. Walk up to them, handshake? No handshake?_

 _Fuck._ She tries to stand a little taller and moves to introduce herself.

It’s a group of about a dozen students, all dressed fashionably and talking to each other in a mix of languages, all looking like perfectly normal and decent people— one of them catches her eye and approaches her, a longish ponytail over his shoulder and a huge duffel bag on his arm.

Mercifully, Chiara sticks out her hand at the appropriate time, puts on her best neutral expression, and forces some scripted-sounding thing from her mouth: “Welcome to the Quill Creek Inn, my name is Chiara, and I’ll be helping you all get settled in— can I speak to the person holding the reservation?”

The man shakes her hand and smiles wanly. “That’s me. Yao Wang. Sorry if we’re a bit early, I’m the professor who’s supposed to be in charge—” there’s a loud shout from one of the students, followed by excessive shushing and a heavy sigh from Mr. Wang.

“I’m so sorry about them in advance. You’d _think_ they’d be moderately behaved—”

“Sorry, Professor Wang!” someone calls out.

The professor in question just sighs again. “Again, so sorry. I promise they’ll be out of here for most of the day.”

 _You know what? Same boat. People are hard. I respect that._ Chiara clears her throat and awkwardly nods toward the computer desk.

“It’s not a problem, sir,” she says, reaching over to grab him a chair and opening up the computer. _That’s the trick to customer service. Way too much Sir and Ma’am for the boomers and normal rapport with everyone who’s not because they’re always a million times nicer._ “I’ll just get you checked in, go over everything… It’s Y-A-O W-A-N-G? Party of twelve?”

“For nine nights, yes,” he confirms, heaving his duffel onto the floor and slumping into the chair.

She gets his details and goes over everything— breakfast at 8:30, dinner at 7, please fill out the food sensitivity form, ask a staff member about visiting the tide pools, the lodge is open until curfew from 11 to 6, we are always here to help and will show you around the area— to be honest, it’s a long and dragging script that’s a pain to go over. Mr. Wang takes it all with the kind of patience only a good teacher can have.

Really, Chiara only remembers what she’s supposed to say because of Isabel, who went over each idea, each phrase with emphasis, passion, in the way that people give speeches or settle debates, as if she was describing her whole life story. Maybe it’s just how normal people talk— but it’s hard to forget people being…

_Excited. Passionate._

Isabel’s like that with everything, really, she finds herself thinking. Passionate, sunny, easygoing. Loves what she does. An infinite amount of feelings, an infinite capacity for people. Like Feli, she would be so much better at whatever Chiara’s trying to do right now.

_It’s seriously impossible to forget that kind of stuff. God, that sounds so stupid, but it’s true. There’s a lot of passion there. There’s a lot of energy. There’s a lot of Isabel._

She clears her throat, straightens out the papers she’s just printed off before handing them to Mr. Wang. “Anything else I can help you with, sir?”

“Oh, I’m alright, thank you,” he says, taking the papers and nodding.

Chiara nods back and gets to her feet. “Alright, I’ll show you all where you’ll be staying—”

But her words are snapped off by a horrible shock of pain that runs up her leg from her hurt ankle to her knee to her hip, striking like a jolt of electricity that tenses everything up and sends her sprawling to the ground, her chin hitting the tile with altogether too much force— _shit! Shit, everyone just watched me fall, I fell again, God, it hurts it hurts it hurts I hate this it hurts so much, deep breaths, don’t cry—_

“Are you— are you alright?” Mr. Wang’s voice says, floating over her, a hand hovering near her to help her up.

“I’m fine,” Chiara quickly says, though her voice is foggy with near-tears and quivering with that shock and pain and humiliation. “I’m fine, just sprained my ankle yesterday, so it’s. Difficult. Yeah.” And she stumbles to her feet, brushes herself off, feeling that familiar ache in her joints times a million along with the numb buzz of full-body pain.

_This is so horrible. This is literally so horrible. I’m about to cry. I can’t even look him in the face, I’m so goddamn embarrassed— oh, and all the students are whispering, muttering, probably laughing, because I guess I can’t conduct myself in a normal fashion—_

She’s really about to die. Mr. Wang, to his credit, doesn’t snicker like she’d expect— he just hoists his duffel bag up on his shoulder, a tired smile on his face.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “You should rest that ankle. Really, I should know, I’m as arthritic as it gets. I’m so stiff it’s a miracle I haven’t fallen over too.”

_What— he looks so young, like one of the students— the professor thing was already an interesting pill to swallow, but arthritis?_

He smiles that same smile, nods, starts to wave his students over. “I’ve had bad knees and hips since I was twenty. I broke my hip a couple years ago like an octogenarian. Oh, I did want to ask— are guests allowed in the lodge kitchen?”

_He just… let it go like that. He just—_

_What is wrong with you? Answer his question and show everyone around._

Something uncomfortable churns up her stomach, adds to the ache throbbing through her entire body, so she just— shuts it all off. She tells him there are basic kitchen appliances in the cabins if he’d like to cook, and she leads the gaggle of students to the three cabins they’ll be sharing, goes over the usual rules and regulations. She pushes down the nausea and the shakiness in her legs as much as she can. It’s not until they’re all settled in and she’s back in the lodge, limping over to Roberto’s room and settling down at his desk to take care of everything she _still_ hasn’t done, when the memory finally comes back—

_Chiara, this is ridiculous. You are not some war vet. You are not fucking traumatized or whatever. This is just a memory you decided to repress, not a flashback of some deep trauma you suffered. Get over yourself._

_I’m so dumb. I keep making a big deal out of everything. I just can’t help— well, remembering—_

_I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about it. I just fell down in front of some people and now I guess I’m going to have a meltdown over it? I guess I’m going to suffer? It’s not_ trauma _trauma, because that’s disrespectful, it’s just an embarrassing thing I remember, and who doesn’t look back on childhood bullying with revulsion? Who doesn’t hate middle school?_

She doesn’t just remember— actually, it’s full, clear, more of a vision than a memory. It does not go away, just lurks in the corner, the feeling of being even shorter than she is now, the feeling of your ankle being pulled out from underneath you and hurtling to pavement, the same shock running up her leg, the nauseating sound of laughter and chatter, a foot pressing into her back, they’re stepping on the worm and spitting on the slug with words she doesn’t quite understand, hurt she doesn’t fully feel, rage she can’t possibly contain— her eyes throb with that fundamental alienation that dogs her like a shadow, and she puts her head down on the desk and cries like she did all the way back then.

_Hey, remember that time when you were being a little idiot and got the shit kicked out of you?_

_Hey, remember that time when you broke your wrist punching a wall?_

_Remember when you got the shit kicked out of you, again?_

_Remember doing way too much Xanax at that party when you were 15 and throwing up on someone and then the door closed, and you were scared but you went along with it anyway—_

Chiara’s body trembles, like it’s trying to shake her soul out, to pour out the last few drops of juice in the carton, to wring out every tear so it can _just go away._

She still hasn’t done any of the things she needs to do, because she has never had a productive day in her life. She’s still sitting here crying like a little bitch over things that happened a decade ago, crying as if spraining her ankle and tripping in front of some random fucking people even matters, crying and crying because she’s always been weak like that.

_Weaker than Feli. Weaker than Roberto. Weaker than everyone around me— weaker than my own past self._

She cries until her heart can’t take it anymore. Then she washes her face, staring at her swollen eyes in the mirror, feeling the numbness slowly trickle out of her fingers and toes with every passing minute. Then she walks back to Roberto’s desk and gets to work.

* * *

Nobody comes to find her or call her for lunch or to cook dinner or have dinner or anything. She isn’t hungry. She doesn’t move from the chair once.

Honestly, working on the inn’s budget isn’t too bad, and she’s more than a little surprised that it’s her favorite part of the job so far. There’s some kind of solace in staring at a spreadsheet until your eyes burn, checking and rechecking everything until it all falls into place. Math has always been her most tolerated school subject, and the AP Calculus exam was the pinnacle of her academic achievement— this is as good as it gets.

_Maybe Feli was onto something with accounting. I’m not too mad at it. Not like I’m cut out for much else._

Speaking of Feli— her phone starts to buzz, flashing that same picture and chiming that same ringtone— but her voice is hoarse and he _knows_ her, really knows her, sees through her like her walls are nothing more than plastic wrap, so she swallows everything down and turns off her phone.

_Not now. Later._

_He can give me that good news when I’m not ready to die. Which, actually, is never—_

“Hey,” someone says behind her, and Chiara whips around to see Isabel poking her head in the doorway, two plates in hand. _Shit._

“What,” Chiara says, her voice echoing strangely in her head.

Isabel gives her a small smile. “Um, can I come in? I brought you something— I figured we could eat together, since you’ve been busy all day.”

 _I don’t want to eat, I want to end my shit,_ Chiara thinks, but something in her silence must seem like a yes, and Isabel’s smile widens as she steps over the threshold. She’s wearing a paisley-patterned bandanna as a headband, and the necklace glimmers on her chest like the glint of a mirror.

Isabel settles down on the bed and hands Chiara a plate. “So I don’t know if you like tomatoes—”

“I love tomatoes,” Chiara blurts, the words slipping out on instinct. _I really love tomatoes. This looks so good._ “They’re my favorite.”

Because one the dishes on the plate is something that arises another tucked-away memory— no revulsion this time, no crying, just a memory of crowded Roman streets on a long-ago family vacation, the blinding heat of late summer and the first food she _really_ felt. _Pomodori al riso:_ roasted tomatoes stuffed with a simple tomato risotto, sprinkled with nothing but salt and pepper and served with roasted potatoes, everything sweet and savory and slightly crispy on the top. This is food at its finest— this is as good as it gets.

“Oh, I’m glad!” Isabel says, handing Chiara a fork and knife. “I seared some chicken thighs and didn’t know what else to serve them with, and Roberto used to make these stuffed tomatoes all the time…”

“It’s—” Chiara sets the plate on her lap, stares at the perfectly crisped-up skin on the chicken, the rich redness of the risotto and the pepper-flecked potatoes, swallows as her mouth waters.

Isabel chuckles a little nervously and glances from Chiara’s face to her plate back to her face. “I hope it’s okay!”

_More than okay. This is exactly— this is the best. God, this is the best._

“Really good,” she finally manages to say. “It looks good. Thanks.”

Isabel’s face bursts with something warm and wonderful. “No problem! Great! Let’s eat,” she says, clinks an imaginary drinking glass up in the air, and they both get to their food in an amicable quiet.

The risotto is tender, each bite complex and rich with fresh roasted tomato— the chicken and potatoes are a simple and delicious backdrop for that wonderful intermingling of sweet, salty, a little bit of tart— Chiara finds herself ravenous all of a sudden, torn between savoring each bite of food forever and cramming the entire plate into her mouth. _No wonder the Quill’s food budget is that high when it all tastes like this. I’ve never felt it more—_ that it feels good to eat. It feels good to love to eat. It feels really, truly incredible.

As she’s finishing up her chicken, Isabel glances up from her plate expectantly, a glimmer in her eyes.

“Is it good?”

Chiara swallows the food in her mouth, but words that adequately express everything roiling up in her are nowhere to be found. She just nods, takes another bite, presses down the exuberance threatening to show on her face and expose everything— it feels like Isabel’s projecting that joy onto her, filling the air between them with contentment.

“I’m glad, it seems like you had a busy day,” Isabel continues. “Is everything worked out now?”

“It’s good enough. I think,” Chiara says.

Isabel smiles, sets her empty plate on the nightstand. “Thanks for checking over all of the budget. The rest of us are pretty bad with the organizational aspect of it all.”

Chiara snorts. “What, even Anneliese?”

“What about Anneliese?”

“I don’t know, she was just being weird and snotty to me,” Chiara mutters, taking the last bite of risotto. _Mostly being a condescending bitch._ “About the software and checking over the budget and laws and all that. I don’t know. If someone else should be doing it, they should just do it instead of being a bitch.”

Isabel laughs at that. “Ah, Anneliese— she’s just like that. She just cares. Doesn’t want you to mess up too hard. That’s just her personality, so don’t worry about it, okay?”

“Huh,” Chiara says. _Honestly, not very convinced, still fucking hate it._

“Oh, and, uh,” Isabel starts, scratching her cheek. “I didn’t want to bother you earlier, just wanted to ask if you’re okay— or, well, feeling any better— I don’t want to assume anything.”

 _Oh, fuck everything._ Chiara’s heart plummets. _She saw me freaking out, didn’t she? She had the privilege to witness me just gearing up to end my shit and crying— or she just sees how swollen my entire face is right now, she’s not an idiot, I’m just shitty at hiding anything and everything—_ she takes a slow breath, reaching over to stack her empty plate on top of Isabel’s. 

Really, how are you supposed to respond to these kinds of things? 

Feli has been asking her the same tired old _hey, are you okay?_ for years. And every single time, without fail, responding with a clipped _I’m fine_ has been no less wrenching and horrible. Nothing is quite like a guileless _are you okay,_ and nothing is quite like lying through your teeth every. Single. Time.

This time is no different. Chiara clears her throat, recites her usual: “I’m fine. It’s fine.”

It’s flat, off-tune, and Isabel clearly hears it, judging by the strain flitting across her face, but no further questions are asked.

 _Thank God._ There’s nothing worse than a well-meaning _are you sure,_ nothing more guaranteed to bring tears.

“Well,” Isabel says at last. “You know I’m always around— I know the whole situation with Roberto is difficult, and being new and somewhere unfamiliar is a lot harder than it looks, obviously— I guess what I’m trying to say is that I get it? I’m here, and, um. If you ever want to help me in the kitchen again…”

She gesticulates limply, a streak of pleading slipping into her voice. Chiara feels something well up behind her eyes— what she really wants to say is that Roberto is the least of her problems, that she’s simultaneously repulsed and _thankful_ for Isabel’s constant presence, that she’s so consumed with herself it’s like being so deep in a well you can’t even see the opening. She wants to say _I wish I could really talk to you._ She wants to say everything in her head— 

Of course, none of it comes out. Chiara just nods it off, and they chat a little about inconsequential things, about lobster and crabbing season, about the grad students and their research (reproductive habits of bivalve molluscs, apparently). It’s a normal conversation, and when Isabel finally leaves and Chiara goes back to her room there’s no emptiness. It just feels genuinely fine.

It’s casual. Normal. Nice. Easy. It makes Chiara appreciate her full stomach, softens the edges of her exhaustion, fades off her anxiety. Later, she lets herself relax completely in the shower— the water scalding and seeping warmth into her back, her shoulders, letting everything just… _be._

_Funny how a day full of emotional exhaustion is the key for a good night’s sleep,_ she thinks, getting in bed and burrowing under blankets. _I’m still a fucking disaster, but I’m disastrously eating well and sometimes I feel…_

_Alright._


	9. nerves and feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "One minute she's so happy  
> Then she's crying on someone's knee  
> Saying, laughing and crying  
> You know it's the same release."  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["People's Parties"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bnIpj3klP6E)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just wanted to thank everyone who has subbed/kudos/commented/bookmarked/etc, I appreciate the support for something that's on the niche side of hws fics! honestly, I started writing this bc I was thinking about how if Romano was a person he'd have all kinds of shit going on (spoiler alert, being a pissed "tsundere" is not a cool quirky trait well adjusted people have) and I realized how much of my own shit I saw in that. as a result this is literally just me writing exactly the content I want to read about: namely, being a lesbian, battling mental health issues, and eating a fuckton. so thank you for reading this and letting me know you enjoy it! it means the world to me and I hope I can provide something a little different with this piece of myself. I love writing this and I especially love hearing from yall <3
> 
> no major CWs for this chapter, and expect feasting in the next one.
> 
> please enjoy :)

The next day is relatively tame, and so is the next. Chiara finishes reworking all the paperwork she needs to modify, spends some time checking on the tide pools and creek, and eats alone in her room or Roberto’s. Her ankle gets a little better, enough that she doesn’t have to be careful about limping around other people. She doesn’t call Feli back. She checks out Mr. Kirkland and his nephew, along with a couple of elderly couples, and checks in a middle-aged woman there on her company’s dime. All in all, it’s a numbing, bland time.

The others mostly leave her alone— if she doesn’t sneak into the kitchen at some point, Isabel will slide her a plate, but Daniel seems to be pretty busy with the students and Anneliese doesn’t bother her.

It’s all good and well. It almost feels like a sustainable model for the way things will be, until things take a fantastic turn for the worse when Chiara gets out of the shower to see a new text from Isabel, a text she’s been dreading:

_ Hey! You scheduled for anything today? _

Chiara tries to put it aside and forget about it until she’s done getting ready, but she’s barely pulled on a sweater when the urge to check it comes back full force. She finds herself standing there, half-dressed, reading and rereading.

The implications are clear: Isabel has already said she’d text if any of the staff needed an extra pair of hands or some favor, and this is very much checking her availability for one of those favors. Chiara considers lying and saying she’s caught up with something urgent, making up some excuse that’s too stupid to be believed but too solid to be questioned, but dealing with the aftereffects of a shitty lie seems worse than just… doing what she has to do.

_ Don’t be lazy. This is your job. You’re getting paid money that goes right to Roberto’s hospital bills, respond to the damn message. _

She spends another five minutes trying to figure out the best way to respond.

_ No. _

_ No, why _

_ Why? _

_ No. Why? _

_ I’m not _

God, this is moronic. She decides on  _ No, why _ and hits send before she can debate over it for another second. Isabel immediately starts typing.

_ Great! _ _  
_ _ I’d love some help in the kitchen during and after lunch _ _  
_ _ Trying to make lunch + dinner and dessert tonight :) _

Chiara sighs. It’s a little after nine right now—  _ I still have some time to work on stuff before then. Three hours. God. _

She types back a brief  _ Ok _ and throws her phone onto her bed, deciding to work on renewing employee insurance in advance and figuring out the best way to schedule in everyone’s requested breaks, a plan that doesn’t go as well as she wishes it would. Mostly, her head is stuck on the thought of helping Isabel out  _ again. _ Cooking with her, having a  _ real conversation _ with her, probably getting pressured into something she’ll regret or otherwise embarrass herself—

_ Not excited. God, I’m not excited in the slightest. _

Time passes, regardless of how eager she might be, and it’s already noon before she knows it. Swiping her phone off the bed, Chiara checks herself over in the mirror one more time. She looks fine, though there’s something missing, something flashy.

_ It’s earrings, fuck me. _

Against all better judgment, she puts on a pair of silver chandelier earrings, one of her nicer pairs. They look good. They match her outfit. She feels like a fretting character in a movie getting ready for some important event, in the most idiotic way possible.

_ Enough. Go downstairs. _

A couple of the students are sitting in the main room, hunched around their laptops and a plethora of papers and chatting animatedly. She skirts around them into the kitchen, poking her head in to see not only Isabel reaching up to open a cabinet, but Daniel and Anneliese as well, sitting on the floor and seasoning a baking tray’s worth of marinated chicken thighs.

_ Oh, God. I didn’t want to be alone with Isabel, but not like this, not like this—  _

“Hey, Chiara,” Daniel says, smiling. Anneliese just gives her a brisk nod. Isabel whirls around, her face bright, and sets a small bag of rice down on the counter before making her way over.

“Chiara! Good to see you,” she says, her ponytail bobbing with every step she takes. “We’re making ourselves and those two out there some lunch right now— can you brown that chicken in the pan on the stove?”

“Uh, sure,” Chiara says, taking the offered tray with shaky hands. “What’s it for?”

“I was missing New York, so I asked for halal chicken,” Daniel says. He stands up to stretch, cracking his fingers with a satisfying snap. “Wait, you used to live in…”

Halfway to the stove, Chiara realizes he’s talking to her, and she sets down the tray and heats up the oil in the pan with that familiar embarrassment already burning on her face. “We were in Virginia. Richmond.”

“See! Anna, I told you she was from the East Coast,” Daniel says, clearly smirking even though she can’t see him, his voice sweet and teasing.

Anneliese huffs, clears her throat. “I never said she wasn’t.”

“Come on, you totally—”

“Flower girl here,” Isabel interjects, her voice sing-song with faux-caution and a laugh sneaking in, as if it’s the world’s funniest inside joke— it must be, since Anneliese sputters hard and Daniel sputters even harder— Chiara bites the inside of her cheek and slides in the first few pieces of chicken with a pair of tongs.

“Anyways!” Daniel proclaims. “Chiara, you’ve had it, right? You know what I’m talking about when I say halal chicken?”

“Yep,” Chiara says, more than a little snarky, because  _ of course, I’m not that uncultured. _ “I was three hours from New York. I’ve had Halal Guys alone a million times.”  _ Never tried to make it myself, though— guess that’s what you have to do for good ethnic food out here in Bumfuck, Nowhere. _

“Nice! See, Chiara knows what she’s talking about.”

Chiara flips the pieces of chicken, marveling silently at the nostalgic smell wafting up. Sure, she’s had it a million times, but she hasn’t been back since she moved in with Feli permanently. The smell brings back memories of loud nights and that mouth-watering hunger after smoking a bowl, the kind of hunger that makes everything the most delicious thing in the world.  _ And chicken and rice is legitimately good, not just when you get the munchies, but really actually good.  _ That’s not limited to halal cart chicken— really, any takeout container of chicken rice, regardless of cuisine, will always be her favorite guilty pleasure.

“I’m making the rice, you two work on the sauce and salad,” Isabel declares. “Just making sure, those two out there don’t have any dietary restrictions, do they?”

“Well, they agreed with chicken and rice,” Anneliese says, and Chiara turns to see her push her glasses up her nose. “Their food forms were all fine, so I don’t believe you have anything to worry about.”

_ Checking the food restriction forms— that’s technically my job, isn’t it?  _ Chiara cringes, shifts her weight off her aching ankle.

Isabel does that little fist pump and heats up a bright orange Dutch oven next to Chiara’s skillet, dropping in a pat of butter and stirring with a wooden spoon. Next is a half-spoon of turmeric, another of cumin, and Chiara finds herself so entranced by the fragrant smell of spices she almost burns her chicken.

She’s about three-quarters of the way through the tray, piling a cutting board with the cooked meat when Anneliese scoffs, looks up at Daniel midway through shredding a head of lettuce on a mandolin. “Wait, did you say you  _ missed  _ New York?”

Daniel scoffs back, an almost-fond exasperation on his face. “And what about it? It’s  _ the _ city.”

“You lived— no, you were just there for ten days.”

“And? I miss it!”

“Isabel, tell him that’s ridiculous,” Anneliese says plainly.

Isabel just laughs and dumps in a couple cups of dry rice. “I don’t see the problem! He’s just missing a beautiful city!”

_ Okay, beautiful is an exaggeration,  _ Chiara thinks,  _ and you clearly haven’t seen two rats fight over a hot dog bun in the subway. _

“Right?” Daniel says, and humor starts to bleed into his voice until it’s hovering at the edge of a laugh. “I  _ identified _ with it. It was where I belonged, okay, and it’s  _ the _ original gay city—”

“San Francisco exists, excuse me,” Anneliese says, the same mock-indignation now mirrored in her voice, “and how does one possibly identify with eight and a half million people?”

“Are you attacking my bisexuality? Is this biphobia?”

“Daniel, I’m  _ literally _ b—”

“You two really do love to pretend to argue,” Isabel chirps, turning to grin at them. “Chiara, isn’t it crazy how I’ve known them my whole life, and they’ve never stopped being like little kids or an old m—”

“Hey!” Anneliese snaps, actually a little indignantly now. “We get along just fine! The friend-fighting happened with Julie, and that’s it.”

Chiara fishes out the last piece of chicken and finds herself smirking, both at the disheveled look on Anneliese’s face and Daniel’s wide-eyed expression.  _ They’re just so— so fucking ridiculous.  _ Isabel just laughs for real, stirring up her rice and pulling out a carton of chicken broth.

“Julie was fighting everyone. That doesn’t count,” she says.

Daniel snorts. “Okay, but I was  _ the _ person she fought with. You can’t say we weren’t constantly punching down at each other.”

“How’s Julie nowadays, anyway?” Isabel asks. “I haven’t talked to her in a couple years. I mean, I see her social media and stuff, but. I really do miss the good old days with her and Marianne.”

“I don’t know,” Daniel says, shrugging. “Honestly, I haven’t talked to her in a few months either.”

“Well, she just called me, and she’s doing fine,” Anneliese says, but her voice is flat, surprisingly so, to the point of bitterness. “You remember that girl she was seeing?”

Daniel perks up. “What, did they break up?”

Anneliese’s expression sours further, a genuine kind of  _ upset _ Chiara wouldn’t exactly expect from a conversation about someone who seems like a good friend. “No. They got engaged.”

Immediately, it’s as if all the air is sucked out of the room, leaving everyone other than Chiara breathless, and she’s just standing there in the middle of it all as they stare commiseratingly at each other, then at her, then back at each other.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Isabel says softly, leaning back against the counter. “That’s— that’s a lot.”

Anneliese rolls her eyes, her face surprisingly expressive with equal parts contempt and something strained. Daniel, meanwhile, schools his face into something kind and neutral, shrugging like it’s no big deal. Chiara just stands there, a pile of chicken thighs on her right and a complete fucking mystery on her left— the itch to know what the hell they’re talking about is insatiable.

_ Is this Julie’s fiancee really that bad? Is someone about to die or something? _

“Doesn’t matter,” Daniel says finally. “Her fiancee is perfect. Good for her.”

_ Wait— _

_ Are they… _

“Are you guys  _ both jealous?” _ Chiara finds herself saying, astonishment shining through her words no matter how much she tries to tone it down. The other three respond with the same astonishment—

“Well—”

“No!”

“I—”

Anneliese sighs, the rigidity in her face collapsing into meekness. “It’s nothing. Just stuff in the past.”

Daniel looks surprisingly  _ sullen—  _ Isabel just nervously chuckles and puts a lid on her pot of rice, now swimming in chicken broth. “Well! Interesting news! Chiara, do me a favor and heat up the oven to 350?”

So Chiara preheats the oven, and the other three dissolve into bland meaningless chatter, their voices clearly suppressed and distant— it’s not until everything’s finished and Isabel brings out the food to the dining table that things get back to normal again, the previous conversation left behind for chatting with the two students.

_ They clearly don’t want me to hear about it. _ Chiara can’t decide whether she’s fine with it or a little… disappointed.

_ Imagine being this Julie person. Imagine causing all of this while just living your life completely unaware— and I thought Daniel and Anneliese had a thing? What kind of a love triangle is this? It sounds beyond fucked, God, no wonder they don’t want to explain it to me. _

They all settle down at the table, Chiara for the first time since she’s arrived at the Quill. She ends up sitting with Isabel on her left with Anneliese further down— the other three sit across the table, laying out napkins and pouring water. The food smells divine. The students ooh and ahh over it, taking pictures and thanking them profusely, diving into some conversation with the other staff members about their current research.

It’s a lot. At first, Chiara can distract herself with that perfectly-spiced chicken, warm toasted pita bread, and fragrant rice, tangy and hot and flavorful. But it’s hard to dissociate completely from a lively conversation happening right in front of you— and she’s not trying, but she still learns the students’ names are Yong-Soo and Mei, both immaculately dressed, both excitedly explaining their thoughts about freshwater versus saltwater clams, both interspersing their commentary with gushing praise for the food. Yong-Soo is tall, loud, and exceedingly handsome— Mei is vivacious, quick-witted, her hair swirling around her in caramel-colored waves— normally, Chiara would find them gratingly perfect, but they just seem…

_ Sweet. A little dorky. Obsessed with slimy things that live in the ocean.  _

The others clearly feel the same: Isabel and Daniel are keeping up with it all full-force, Anneliese smiling lightly and making occasional comments.

_ I guess… I kind of get what Isabel was saying the other day, about talking with guests, about getting something rewarding back. Just a little. Mostly, I had no idea someone could ever enjoy talking about salinity this much, much less that I’d find it kind of enjoyable too. _

They can’t be much younger than her— really, they’re probably around her age. But there’s no bitterness (not now, anyway) in Chiara about their successes.

_ That has to be the most surprising part. I don’t want to throttle them. They just seem cool. _

_ Is this what being well-adjusted feels like? _

The rest of the meal passes similarly. Later, doing the dishes and listening to Isabel and Daniel go over dinner plans, Chiara lets herself relax, lets her head level. 

_ I just had a great meal. And I’m being around other people, and I’m not wanting to kill myself. I’m cooking. I’m existing. This is as good as it gets. _

Daniel and Anneliese head off, Anneliese to do some housekeeping and Daniel to check in with the rest of the students about some trip to the crabbing dock they’d planned, and then it’s just Chiara and Isabel, sitting on the couch in the main room, watching the sun sparkle through the windows.

It’s silent. It’s not a bad kind of silence, though— actually, it feels rather calm, normal, like there’s no need to fill that space with words— until Isabel turns to her and does just that.

“I guess I should explain at least a little about that situation earlier,” she says, a frown forming in her eyebrows. “I mean, it’s not really my business, but. At the same time. You’re with us, now, you should at least know.”

Chiara gulps, clenches her teeth on instinct, anticipation making her uneasy.  _ I’m not with— I’m not any part of the “us”. This is weird.  _ “I mean, you don’t have to.”

“It’s not bad,” Isabel shrugs. “I just feel weird keeping you in the dark… I’m sure you’ve heard from Daniel about him and Anneliese—”

“It was vague as hell,” Chiara mutters, “but yeah.”

Isabel chuckles, pulls her legs closer to herself. “It’s hard to explain. I mean, we all grew up here together. And they’ve been inseparable, along with Julie, since… jeez, I don’t even know. Preschool? They have their own dynamic— they’re the kind of friends that just keep cycling through each other, they’ve always been together—”

“So a throuple,” Chiara interjects, “is what you’re saying—”

“No no no—” Isabel flushes, gesturing frantically. “I mean, maybe? I mean. No. Actually, I have no clue, I feel like this is too far— um, basically what I’m trying to say is, Julie’s a bit of a difficult topic for them. They have history. And I guess her engagement is kind of a slap in the face. So if you could stay off of it as much as you can—”

“You don’t have to ask,” Chiara says, and suddenly feels a flush of embarrassment flood her, looking at the floor and feeling very overwhelmed by her sudden frankness. “I mean. It’s fine. It’s pretty obvious. I get it.”

She looks back up to see Isabel beaming, looking relieved. 

“Great! Thank you, it’s just, you know. It’s a lot to explain to someone who hasn’t been here their whole life like the rest of us. But I want to say it’s all healthy and normal—”

Here Isabel pauses, bites her lip, nods slowly. “Yeah. Honestly, the three of them have some of the healthiest relationships I’ve ever seen, which is such a weird thing to say about a dynamic like that. I respect it, though, and I guess it works? They just need their space, if you get what I’m saying.”

Chiara nods, forcing her face into something neutral—

_ Healthy. Normal. Guess I’ve never heard of that. _

She bites back the urge to roll her eyes at herself.  _ Jesus, this is that fucking narcissism coming back. Making something about other people into something about you. Taking this normal conversation and new information and bastardizing it so you can think about me me me, about how shitty and unhealthy and abnormal every single relationship you’ve had has been, so you can beat yourself up about everything. _

_ Fuck that. Tell me, would Isabel even look at me if she knew about any of that shit? _

_ Like she matters? What, are you trying to get into another shitty, unhealthy, abnormal relationship with her? _

Chiara abruptly stands up, straightening out nonexistent wrinkles in her clothes. 

“Are we, uh. Starting dinner soon?” 

Isabel looks up, smiling distantly, staring straight into her eyes like she can see every traitorous thought flashing through Chiara’s head. It feels like she’s being peeled, like she’s falling into pieces under that gaze, under a moment that lasts entirely too long. Isabel clears her throat— 

“Oh, sorry, I’m glad you reminded me!” she eventually says, her voice tripping. They make their way back to the kitchen, peeling potatoes and exchanging brief glances, the weak afternoon sun streaming through and bathing it all in gold. It’s a nice day, really. Chiara tries her best to keep it that way.

* * *

Three whole chickens and a lot of chopped vegetables later, most of the prep work is done— Isabel is making coq au vin, French-style chicken braised in red wine, and it smells wonderful stewing on the stove. It’d be a perfect moment, really, if it wasn’t for the nonstop stream of rambling Chiara has endured for the last hour.  _ A whole fucking hour. _ She’s had the privilege of hearing about the childhood friend that taught Isabel this recipe, said friend’s parents’ occupations, the impact of logging in the Pacific Northwest, her cousin’s tomato farm, and a million other words that rush by like river rapids.

_ I don’t even know if she’s trying to talk to me— it feels like she’s just talking to get the energy out. She’s like Feli: quiet during the trial period, motormouth in the full version. _

_ God, I still need to call him back. _

Maybe she should get to doing that. It’s about five, and Isabel’s progressed to verbally brainstorming dessert, stowing away all their prep to assemble in an hour or two.  _ She can make dessert by herself, right? Unless it’s some crazy time consuming thing. I should ask— or rather, I should listen and wait until she decides. _

“Hot and cold,” Isabel mumbles, leaning back against the walk-in freezer. “Hot, hot is good, but it’s the end of spring, oh, but we’re indoors…”

_ Oh, fuck it. I’m out. _ “I’ll be back,” Chiara says, fishing her phone out of her pocket and making her way out of the kitchen. Isabel doesn’t respond, probably still stuck in her own head, which is definitely for the best.

It’s strange— the walk to Chiara’s room is still painful, but substantially less so. Her legs have either gone numb from all the standing, or she’s actually recovering and moving out of constantly being one big ache.  _ Wouldn’t that be just wonderful. Maybe one day my body will stop giving up on me like this. _

She kicks off her shoes and flings herself into bed, thumping down on her back and hitting Feli’s contact before she can second-guess herself. The phone only rings a couple times before he picks up.

“Chiara!” he says, his voice sunny as always. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” she instinctively says. “I just. Missed your call the other day.”

“Oh, it’s all good,” Feli says. He does, indeed, sound all good. “Just wanted to let you know Grandpa’s been having a couple of semi-conscious moments! They’re expecting him to wake up soon, isn’t that amazing?”

“Mm.”

“And I’ve been running again, even though you know I’m not so great at it, but hey, we all start somewhere! I’m also making a little money on the side— I’m helping a friend with her consulting business— really, I’m so thankful for everyone’s generosity, you know? The person whose house I’m staying in, the Quill and Isabel for helping us out, my friend letting me in on her business…” And on and on it goes, a conversation that feels one-sided in words but somehow reciprocal in energy, with Feli’s loose trains of thought running so similarly to Isabel’s it’s unnerving. 

_ From one chatterbox to another. What are the odds, really. Not one, but two people like this in my life. What does that say about them? About me? _

_ I don’t mind, I just— _

She blinks, her eyes feeling heavy and dazed with the urge to take a nap, and something trickles down her cheek.

_ Tears. I’m crying. _

It’s not like the other times she’s cried recently, and there is no bitter sobbing catching in her throat— rather, it’s like she’s trying to put in eyedrops, the missing tears rolling down her face instead of getting blinked into her eyes.

Feli just keeps talking, unaware. Chiara doesn’t know why she’s crying again. It’s like that for a while.

It’s not until Feli trails off, apparently lost in thought over the logistics of fuel efficiency or something similarly banal, that her tears slow and she clears her throat.

“Feli,” and she pushes the rest of it out before she can regret it too much, “I have a question. Be honest.”  _ I’ve wanted to ask you this for a long time. _

“Oh! Yeah, sorry, what is it?”

“Do you think I’ve failed forever?”

Stunned, echoing silence, a silence so blank she can practically see the expression on his face. At last he stammers, coughs something out: “What— what do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. Everything I’ve done. Everything I’ve caused.”

“Chiara, you didn’t—” He breathes deeply, clear hurt reflecting into his voice, and Chiara wishes she could transfer all her useless tears to him, for him to feel, to release, to let it all go, instead of holding onto this stupid fucking pain over her.  _ They’re not doing anything for me. I don’t feel shit. _

“You didn’t do anything,” he says. “I’m serious. You didn’t.”

“What, I just moved in with you and messed up everything because I felt like it?”

“That is  _ not _ your fault. You didn’t mess up anything. You were having such a hard time, and I’m your  _ brother,  _ I wanted to help you. I wanted it all to stop. I wanted you to get better.”

She should understand what he’s saying. She should apologize, she should thank him, she should— but it all sounds like a collection of random words in her ears, feelings she can’t really grasp, and the profoundness of that alienation from everything hovers over her head again, threatening to fall and flood her— so she clears her throat, wipes her face.

“Okay,” she says. “I have to go now.”

“I love you, Chiara. Have a good day, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Thanks for calling me.”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

“Bye.”

She hangs up. Then she gets up, splashes her face with cool water that brings her back to the ground, away from that dangling head-spinning feeling. Downstairs, Isabel is checking her phone— the stand mixer is whirring away behind her, the whole kitchen full with the smell of savory, simmering chicken.

_ She decided on a dessert. I wonder what it is. _

_ My ankle feels weird and loose. _

_ What am I supposed to do with myself now? _

_ Am I just so numb that I don’t even feel anything anymore? Were those tears all my emotions leaving my body? God, I fucking hope so. _

Isabel glances up, her face brightening like it’s automatic— “Chiara! Where’d you go?”

“I was calling Feli,” Chiara says, sticking her hands in her pockets and walking over to peek in the mixer. “What’s this?”

“Oh, it’s eggs for tiramisu!” Isabel says. She gestures to a bowl of what looks like mascarpone on the counter and a long glass of deep, dark liquid, along with a package of ladyfingers. “I figured since we’re having a bit of a heavier meal, something light and chilled would be a good dessert— I’m debating on whether to add another liquor to the Marsala, actually.”

Chiara scoffs, suddenly feeling so much better.  _ The ball’s in my court now.  _ “This is such an obvious choice. Vermouth amaro with a splash of creme de cacao or Kahlua. Swap the vermouth with a dessert wine if you’re really trying for something sweet.”

Isabel laughs incredulously. “Obvious? That’s so… I mean, I’m not the cocktail expert, but—”

“Creme de cacao for depth,” Chiara says, raising her eyebrows, feeling that invigorating surge of smartassery rush back into her.  _ Not so numb after all when it comes to tiramisu, I see.  _ “Vermouth amaro for something light and flavorful to balance out the bitterness of the coffee and the sweetness of the Marsala. It’s easy for tiramisu to be too rich and strong, so going with the vermouth is essential for a lighter version.”

Isabel bursts into a full, true grin. It’s the kind of smile that feels so full of emotions and thoughts and everything Chiara wants to stay away from, it paralyzes her completely, wiping all thoughts of alcoholic snobbery from her brain.

“You know,” Isabel says. “You didn’t seem too great today. But I’m glad you’re getting into this tiramisu, and I really hope you’re feeling better, because you seem better. You know, I actually wanted to ask you— do you want to eat dinner with us today?”

The paralysis doesn’t go away. If anything, it ramps up to eleven, gluing Chiara’s face into an open shock she kind of hates, cementing her feet to the floor, her hands to her side.

_ God, I feel so… _

_ It sounds so ridiculous. I was just ranting about alcohol and being dumb. But it really feels like she respects me. It feels like she sees me, lets me in, and I just feel. I feel so much about it. I don’t know what to do. She’s happy for me. That’s insane. That’s so crazy. She’s glad I feel better, and she’s happy for me, and truly, I really—  _

_ Where do you even start with that? _

_ And she wants me to eat with everyone, she really wants me around, and I want to eat dinner with everyone else. I do. _

“Yeah,” Chiara finally manages, her throat constricting. “Yeah, that’d be nice.”

Isabel’s smile feels like it permeates every molecule in her body, unzips every strand of DNA in every cell and puts it back together, and for once Chiara doesn’t mind it. Actually, it’s the opposite— she feels fresh. New. Unburdened from that numbing emotional separation, the roaring fires of self-loathing, the stinging pain of everything else. 

It’s not a cure. But it feels alright. She’s alright. 

Isabel clears her throat, turns off the stand mixer and offers Chiara a spatula.

“Help me put it all together?” she says.

Chiara nods, and they get to work. She sections out and drops chunks of mascarpone into the mixing bowl, a glug of that heavy cream to go with, watching as it all whips up to something light and bright and sweet.

“It looks really good,” she finds herself saying. And again, when she’s handing Isabel ladyfingers and laying them out in a tall trifle bowl— each one is fragrant with espresso, cocoa, the alcohol equal parts biting and sweet, those same words coming out as she tastes a drop of the syrup on her finger.

“This is really good.”

_ This is really, truly good. You’re good. Thank you. _

“I’m glad,” Isabel says. She’s not quite smiling, just relaxed, peaceful. “I’m really glad.” And she leaves it at that. They finish the first layer of ladyfingers, thickly spreading on the filling and dusting with a coat of rich cocoa powder before adding more, all of it in a quiet that makes Chiara’s heart clench with something akin to joy.

_ I’m kind of excited to eat this. I’m good. I’m ready. I’m here. _


	10. dark cocoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's just that now you're romanticizing some pain that's in your head  
> You got tombs in your eyes, but the songs you punched are dreaming  
> Listen, they sing of love so sweet, love so sweet  
> When you gonna get yourself back on your feet?"  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["The Last Time I Saw Richard"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y4WVZncHaLo)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs for this chapter: drinking (alcohol) and mention of alcoholism/addiction/relapse/etc. I would like to reiterate this because this theme will come up more: I am not intending to romanticize addiction! Chiara treats it lightly, but it's a serious issue both in general and for her specifically, and it will be fleshed out as things go on and the veil of repression and compartmentalization falls away. I've seen firsthand exactly how destructive substance abuse can be and how much it exacerbates preexisting issues. there's absolutely nothing nice about it, and I hope I can do that aspect justice, because addiction and getting out of it is some of the most difficult shit you can endure. recovery isn't a straight path and I don't intend to give a singular portrayal of this issue or any other issues touched on in this story, just reflections of my own views and self.
> 
> this chapter is a bit more plot/character exploratory and I hope you enjoy some of the side plot stuff getting #exposed :)) also, I've expanded my planned word count (we're almost halfway through!) and changed up the number of chapters... I think 22 is my final decision, plus an epilogue that will just be peak self-indulgence. be ready.
> 
> for now, please enjoy :)

There’s a mind-boggling amount of people, chatter, and food all around the table, an extra set of folding chairs dragged in to accommodate everyone, and Chiara feels as if she’s floating in the middle of the ocean, safe and fine but completely overwhelmed by the sheer  _ amount  _ around her.  _ And it’s not even that much. I’m just used to holing up by myself. _

In total, there’s probably around twenty people, from the big group of students and a couple solitary travelers to the staff and Chiara herself. It feels like she’s in the middle of either a summer camp cookout or a medieval beer hall. 

Nobody’s drinking, thank god, just digging into plates of food: that glorious coq au vin turned out far better than I ever thought it could, she thinks, the chicken tender and fragrant with the kind of depth you can only get from a good red wine. The stewed vegetables are perfect and the sauce is thick and divine, ladling smoothly over soft-cooked parsley potatoes and crunchy French bread. Picking out succulent pieces of mushroom and carrot is no less satisfying. Even the braised greens on the side are amazing— she’s not sure she’s ever had fresher, sweeter kale and chard.

_ God, I could eat like this every damn day. There’s nothing like the best ingredients. I need to think about this next time I revise the budget. _

Daniel’s on her left, the only person she really knows in this corner of the table— for some reason, Isabel and Anneliese ended up scattered over on the other side, and Chiara finds herself a silent bystander listening in on his conversations with the students sitting across from them.

“So, Lien,” Daniel says to one of them, a girl in a green shirt with her hair in a ponytail. “I’m curious, I gotta ask— why the Quill? Is your professor paying for all this?”

She snorts and takes a sip of water. “Professor Wang? Nah, never. If it was up to him, we’d be camping illegally under the docks during low tide.”

“Oh my god, you’re so right,” another student says with an eye roll, someone whose name Chiara hasn’t caught, a guy with a dry voice and bangs in his eyes. “He might just be one of the cheapest people on this planet.”

“We actually did get the funding through the professor,” someone else chimes in with a smile. His name is Rohan, if she remembers correctly— he’s one of the few undergrad students. “He won a really specific travel grant that was pretty good, and he’s one of the professors affiliated with the International Student Association. The majority of us are marine bio students in ISA, so one thing led to another, you know how it goes.”

“Oh, I see,” Daniel says, nodding. “Yeah, that makes sense— no offense, but I was a little curious about it. We’re not exactly cheap.”

“And I totally get why,” the first guy says with a raised eyebrow. “I’ve literally never eaten this well. No clue what you guys are doing, but it’s totally working. The last few days were great, too, but this is amazing.”

Rohan and Lien both nod vigorously, their eyes wide and shining, both talking over each other about seasoning and tenderness and texture as Daniel grins back at them.

_ They’re… they’re nice. I appreciate that they appreciate this too. And I know Isabel would just live for it. _

“Really, you should talk to Chiara here,” Daniel says, suddenly clapping her on the back, her shoulders freezing up in an instant. “She does some of the cooking, and she made some of this! Actually, if you guys have anything to request—”

_ What the fuck. What in the actual fuck. _

“Oh,  _ thank you, _ this is seriously so good,” Lien says, leaning in with a little bit of a flush across her nose. Chiara can’t help mirroring her small smile a little bit, the effervescence leaping from the others to her, regardless of the minimal amount of actual cooking she’s done so far.

She clears her throat, stutters out some bland, “Um, thanks,” a tiny part of her sucking up the validation like it’s a magical elixir, another bigger part of her feeling astronomically out of place.

“Seriously!” Rohan says, flashing two thumbs up. “Lien and Leon here are huge foodies, they really mean it— you guys could make anything at all and we’d eat it. Actually, just in general, you guys have been amazing so far, so thank you!”

_ Jesus, if only they knew how little I’ve been doing for this place— really, I shouldn’t even be considered part of the staff. At least the other employees are interacting with people. _

The unease in her throat refuses to be swallowed down, so she settles on nodding and hoping Daniel’s enthusiastic response covers her too.

_ They really are nice, though. And they haven’t said anything about that one time I fell, which is stupid, because why would they remember me? Actually, who  _ wouldn’t  _ remember that kind of idiotic behavior? I really fucking did that. Amazing of me. But they’re nice, and I’m having a good meal, and it’d be great if I didn’t keep ruining these things for myself, take another bite of chicken and pipe down, Chiara. _

So she does just that, tuning out the words and gestures and faces around her— it’s all good and well, really, until Daniel taps her on the shoulder, turning to her with an easygoing smile.

“You good?” he says. Distantly, she notices the silver ring in his eyebrow, glinting in the lamp light.

“Uh, fine,” she says. “What is it?”

He shrugs and drinks the last of his water, setting it down with a satisfying thud. “Just checking, yeah? You’ve been here for a little over a week now, I think, and it’s probably been a hell of an adjustment.”

“I guess,” Chiara mutters, mopping up the last of the stew on her plate with a piece of bread. “It’s fine, though.”

“Anna been bothering you about anything?”

She huffs on reflex at that one. “No. Kind of. Isabel says it’s just her personality. So I guess not.” Keeping the sarcasm out of her voice is a struggle and a half, mostly fueled by the fact that they’re childhood friends— after all, she probably wouldn’t be very happy about people being assholes about Feli to her face, though that’s mostly canceled out by how much it irks her to be around equally irritating people as herself.

_ There’s literally no reason to feel that way. That’s right, you just hate her because she said two annoying words to you and she’s more put together, and you can’t stand anyone who’s better than you at anything. _

_ She just has more bees up her ass. _

_ Exactly why you’re jealous. _

Daniel laughs. “I mean, Isabel’s absolutely right. Don’t mind Anna. Honestly, don’t take any offense at this—”

_ Oh, God. I saw this coming. Demolish me. _

“I think you guys aren’t too different, though.”

_ What? _

“I mean, I obviously don’t know you very well, but you’ve been a really hard worker, and a smart one too. And I feel like…” He trails off, frowning down at his plate. Chiara gulps, clenches her fingers together, her heart thudding loud in her chest.

_ Where’s the “but…”? Why am I so uncomfortable? And why is he talking like I’m his seven year old son? This just shows it: I can shit on myself all day, but as soon as somebody says a word about me, I just  _ know _ they’re going to let me down, this is making me sick, I don’t want him to finish, I don’t want to hear it. _

“I don’t know,” Daniel finally says, running a hand through his hair. “I guess what I mean to say is I feel like you guys are both the type of person who should be the most successful.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean—?” 

_ I know I’m not successful, you don’t need to rub it in, God. _

Daniel vehemently shakes his head. “I  _ swear  _ I’m not being backhanded— look, fine, I’ll just explain— here’s the thing. Anneliese is incredibly gifted. She is one hundred percent the most gifted, talented person I’ve ever met in my life.”

_ What, is that an innuendo for something fucked up? Could I feel any weirder about all of this? _

He clearly sees the mounting revulsion on her face and sighs, drops his hands in his lap. “Okay. What I mean is, she’s artistically talented— like, she was a child prodigy, is what I mean. She isn’t just the most intelligent person I know, she was literally playing Beethoven in pre-K. Like, you haven’t heard music until you’ve listened to her play. It’s actually… transcendent. It’s crazy to me— she’s always been so hardworking on top of it, and she’s never lost her humility even when she was playing concert halls, she might as well be a god—”

Here he cuts himself off abruptly, a very familiar flush bright across his face that makes Chiara internally cringe in sympathy, probably realizing exactly what he’s saying.

_ Jesus. He’s fucking whipped. _

“Anyways,” Daniel says, clearing his throat. “That’s all over now, and she works full-time at the Quill. But I genuinely think you’re the same kind of smart and talented—”

Chiara can’t help the full cringe that jumps out of her face at that one, and Daniel flippantly waves a hand in response. “I’m serious. I looked at your revised spreadsheet system, and it’s truly genius. You’ve somehow managed to fix every single financial issue we had with nothing but Google as your education. Also, Isabel’s had nothing but good things to say about you in the kitchen, same with your brother.”

“You—” Chiara’s head swirls, and it probably takes a lot longer for coherent words to come out than it should. “Wait, you talked to Feli?”

Daniel shrugs. “I’m the one who usually did the emailing, so I got in touch with him first. He sent me your full resume and everything.”

_ God, this is so. This. I can’t. This is so embarrassing. What the fuck. _

_ How the hell did he get that? _

“You saw my full resume,” she manages to say. “That’s so fucking humiliating.”

_ I can’t believe this shit.  _ To her, it’s quite possibly one of the most humiliating things she can think of someone seeing. Really, her full resume is just a list of every single job she’s ever had, most of them for extremely short periods of time, all of them minimum wage shitholes where she ended up getting fired on the spot for some serious infraction.

_ Literally, I just used it to keep track of every single place to avoid going to so I wouldn’t be recognized, or for copy-pasting the three good ones into whatever application I was filling out next. The most use that thing ever got was figuring out which McDonald’s the drug dealer worked at. So. Fucking. Humiliating. _

_ Feli, you bitch. _

Daniel frowns. “No, it’s really not, though? You’ve had experience in everything and especially customer service, which is perfect for this job—”

“Did you miss,” Chiara says, her voice shifting scathing, “the part about me getting fired from every single one? Or all the notes about—”

“Not relevant, don’t care,” Daniel maintains, flapping his hand at her again, his voice stern and affirming. “Look, I know you don’t feel great about yourself, but we’re all genuinely glad you’re here, you know? It’s only been a little more than a week, but I really mean it when I say I’m in your corner.”

_ I’m— who are you, my dad? Gonna start calling me kid and pal next? _

She can already feel the irritation pile up on her face. The worst part might just be that she really  _ does  _ feel like a kid in front of him: scared, helpless, seeking validation, trapped, hopeful.

It feels like shit. Chiara swallows and moves to start clearing her plate.

“Chiara,” Daniel says, and when she stops and looks at him his eyes are full of that same hope. “One last thing I just wanted you to know— I saw your post offering an innkeeper position here. And I wanted you to know that we all hope you stay here as long as you need to, not just for Roberto’s sake, but for the rest of us, and I know it seems pretty far-fetched—”

“Do any of the others know?”

“What?” He blinks at her, face blank before shifting back again. “Oh. Oh, no, they don’t.”

“Okay. Good. Don’t fucking tell them.” And she gets up, her heart jittering and skipping with rage and fear and shock at all of it, before he can say anything else. A couple of the students call quick thank-yous at her, which she manages to curtly nod at.  _ Nothing’s different, Daniel, nothing’s changed at all. I’m still inadequate. I’m still getting thanked for things I didn’t do. I’m still a piece of shit. And dammit, I guess I’m missing out on dessert. _

She washes her own dishes and flees through the back door back to her room, crawls under the covers, and stays there watching random videos on her phone until she can’t breathe. She falls asleep within the hour.

* * *

A few more days pass. Things are mostly the same, except she only occasionally updates the bookkeeping systems and spends more time doing this and that in the kitchen, washing a lot of dishes and eating with the others once in a while. It feels like second nature to keep her mouth shut at this point, to retreat into a sullen mass of dodging eye contact and tongue-biting. She doesn’t talk to Daniel at all.

Of course, it all blows over when he asks her to help him out with taking the students around, Isabel chiming in with some spiel about how important it is for the innkeeper to know the area well—  _ I’m  _ not _ the innkeeper, I don’t think so—  _

Still, she ends up forcibly ejected from the lodge and sliding into the passenger seat of the inn’s scuffed-up white van, all twelve of the party of students (and one worn-out professor) sprawled out across the seats behind her. Daniel’s driving— at first he seems careful and adjusted, backing out of the parking space with step-by-step precision, but the moment he hits the highway he’s swerving like a maniac.

_ If I wasn’t such a shitty driver myself, I’d be tearing him a new one. Jesus Christ. It’s like he’s trying to end my life for me. _

None of the others seem to mind, though— Mei’s sticking her head out the window, turning back to talk to Lien every once in a while, and the other three girls in the group are giggling away in the very back. Mr. Wang’s going over a notebook with a pair of glasses perched on his nose. Hell, Leon is even painting his nails, artfully maneuvering his hand every time Daniel swerves through a particularly steep curve.

_ That’s… really impressive, actually. I can’t even think right now. _

It’s weird— maybe the lack of human contact is finally getting to her, because she finds herself swiveling around every so often to glance back at the students, who are thankfully much too busy with their own antics to pay her any mind. She can’t swivel back to normal fast enough when she realizes what she’s doing. Daniel clearly takes notice, but doesn’t say anything either.

It’s a longer drive than she’d expect, but they get to the docks eventually— the sun gleams weakly off the water, a couple of solitary fishers here and there— and everyone piles out of the van as soon as Daniel shifts to park.

“It’s a nice day, right?” Daniel says, smiling lightly.  _ It’s just us in the car now.  _ Chiara shrugs.

“It’s pretty damn cloudy,” she says.

Daniel laughs. “That’s as good as weather gets out here. It’s supposed to drizzle later, so gotta appreciate it while it lasts.”

Chiara shrugs again, staring at the students splitting into groups of two or three and splashing around to take samples from the water like they’re little kids playing, feeling a mixture of boredom and irritation at even having to be here in the first place.

“Do we have to go out there with them, or,” she finally says, when the silence in the car is too much to sit through.

Daniel blinks and seems to snap out of whatever reverie he’s in. “Oh! Sometimes, yeah, they want me to show them to some place— they’re pretty familiar with the area now, though. Actually, I wanted to start showing you around the area and the bay, stuff like the beach and the pier and the aquarium… You can drive, right?”

Chiara snorts. “I can’t guarantee I won’t get pulled over or do a couple flips, but yeah.”

“Yes! Best kind of driver,” Daniel says, grinning, and unbuckles his seatbelt.  _ Oh God, what is that supposed to mean?  _

“You better get used to driving this huge thing around. This is your job now. Here, get in.”

And before she knows it, they’ve switched spots, and she’s backing out of the parking space— “Fuck, it’s like trying to drive a school bus,” she grits out, checking all her mirrors for once.  _ It’s like I’m suddenly a good driver. _

“Well, have you ever driven a minivan?” Daniel asks.

“I— I mean, yeah, my… I drove a minivan occasionally as a teenager?”

Daniel cackles, kicking his legs up on the dashboard. “Great. It’s totally different. Now turn right.”

_ Oh, fuck everything, _ Chiara thinks, her heart jumping up into her throat when she accidentally turns on the wipers instead of her turn signal, driving this bumbling clown car down swerving roads, Daniel next to her providing occasional directions and commentary. They trace along the bay, going inland and through town. Chiara gets to try to absorb where every store and tourist destination is while simultaneously death-gripping the steering wheel and trying not to die in a fiery wreck. Meanwhile, Daniel just seems intensely amused at her panic, cheerily giving tour-guide style speeches about the aquarium’s founding and the best time to catch lobsters.

_ This is what passes for entertainment in middle-of-nowhere towns, I guess. I should know. Back then there really was nothing better to do than drive around and get high in the woods. _

By the time they finally circle back to the dock, she’s seen slightly more of Newport and a lot more of the cars and roads around her, along with entirely too much manic crazy on Daniel’s part to feel safe about him ever driving them again.

_ I trust myself more to drive this car. That has literally  _ never  _ happened, not even when Roberto was driving us over the Appalachians. _

Saying as much to Daniel elicits nothing but a loud, hearty laugh, and when the group piles back into the car he doesn’t insist on taking back the keys, just giving directions with that same smile on his face.

_ I don’t know whether I should feel patronized, respected, offended, or relieved. I can’t complain, though— I really would have ended my shit if I had to sit in the car with him driving. _

_ As if I’m not about to end my shit right now, trying to steer this thing around with a dozen more people crammed in it. _

By some grace of God, they make it back to the Quill in one piece, right as the afternoon sun is starting to sink through the sky and glimmer across the water. The students all start piling out again, Daniel helping them haul a crate of samples. It’s quiet. Peaceful. She waits until they all get to the lodge door before taking out the keys and opening the door, taking a deep breath of that outside air, fresh and cool in her face—

“Hey, excuse me?” someone says— Chiara bites down the instinct to shriek and turns to see Yong-Soo, crouched by the side of the van like some kind of goblin in an elf’s body, eyes wide and finger pressed to his lips.

_ Deep breaths. Jesus Christ. Be nice to the customer. Be nice to the customer. Be nice. _

“What,” she says, takes another breath, tries again. “Sorry, what can I help you with?”

“Okay, this is really weird,” he says, glancing around like they’re in the middle of an intensely private conversation. “Well, I don’t know if it’s weird, I just don’t know if you guys can do it— basically, we were wondering if we could have a thing on our last night here?”

“Um.”  _ God, what the fuck is happening.  _ “A… a thing?”

“Yeah!” Yong-Soo says, stumbling to his feet and enthusiastically gesturing. “Like, for Professor Wang. Some kind of party thing. It’d be cool if we could make him some food, that’s really all I’m saying, we wouldn’t be doing it in the lodge or anything.”

_ Oh. Oh, that’s…  _

“He just spent a lot of time organizing this and carting us around, you know what I mean, it’d be pretty sick if we could give back a little, right, since he’s kind of a tired old man and we’re—”

Chiara can’t help snorting at that. “You know what,” she cuts in, “Don’t worry about it. You can use the lodge. We only have a couple other guests who wouldn’t mind it much, anyway.”

She frowns to herself, going over the rest— “Well, legally, you can’t touch the kitchen. But I can request whatever you want, if you just give us recipes or names.”

“Oh my god,  _ thank you, _ this is awesome,” Yong-Soo gushes, whipping out his phone and typing so fast the clicking sounds blur together into a literal buzz of excitement. “Okay, I’m telling everyone, I’ll get back to you guys soon— thank you so much again! This has literally been the best trip of my life, thank you for all the accommodations—”

And before she knows it, he’s already rushed off, leaving her standing by the van with keys in hand and a creeping warmth in her stomach.

_ That was… kind of sweet. I kind of like these people. They’re just straight up having a good time. I’ll have to check all the schedules and figure it out, but it’ll be worth it, though. _

She snorts to herself again, thinking about his conspiratorial whisper, thinking about Daniel’s crazed driving, all of those funny little things piling up into that deep, warm pool in her, the inherent ridiculousness of being a real live human being in the real world overwhelming her for a moment. Chiara laughs, and she laughs for a while— looking over the beach and cackling like a maniac at how stupid everything is, how small she feels, everything bursting through the dam in a mess of absurdity.

Then she goes inside, and she gets to work.

* * *

The next day passes in a blur— she lets the staff know all the details, does some more cooking and cleaning, even has a real conversation at dinner with Isabel and Daniel, which feels like some kind of freak accident on her part. 

Distantly, she’s aware of just how much she’s been working this last week, doing odd jobs from morning to night. It doesn’t feel bad, though. It’s just…

_ Easier to do too much than too little. _

Truthfully, it helps to have something completely separate from her own traitorous brain to focus on. Usually she can fall asleep pretty quickly these days, texting Feli back whenever he messages her short updates before passing out, and it’s one of those gifts she never really considered until it happened to her. Sleeping easy hasn’t ever been a thing in her life. Having energy is as weird as it gets.

So it’s extra shitty when the usual insomnia comes back that night, and Chiara finds herself still awake, still looking at forum threads about daily transgressions and financial disputes, the most pointless and boring things she can find doing nothing to lull her to sleep.

_ I hate this. It’s already one, and I need to be up at a decent time tomorrow, maybe even cook breakfast— if I have to pull an all-nighter I’ll end it. _

Her brain doesn’t shut off regardless, so she decides to get up and walk around, maybe eat and drink something so she can go back to bed. It’s darker than she expected out in the hallway. The air is freezing compared to her bed, making her shiver under her sweater. It’s eerily silent, the other bedroom doors firmly shut and unforgiving, each careful step she takes echoing slightly.

In the main room, the lodge fireplace barely glows with embers. She goes to the kitchen and opens the door—

A flood of light blinds her for a moment, surging over and into her, and when Chiara blinks it away it’s none other than Anneliese.

_ What the hell is she doing here? _

She’s standing over a cocktail shaker and a tall glass of ice, her hair pulled up into a bun, head turning up to glance at Chiara— they stare at each other like that for a long moment, completely silent and shocked. At last, Anneliese does a polite little  _ ahem, _ waves a hand in a brief greeting.

“Chiara, good evening,” she says. “Trouble sleeping?”

_ I could say the same for you.  _ “What are you doing up?” Chiara asks.

Anneliese shrugs, turns to rifle through the liquor cabinet. “I, for one, was having some difficulties, so I decided to practice my mixology. Would you like something?”

_ Are we about to drink together? Didn’t take her for a fellow alcoholic. _

_ As if. She used the word mixology, for God’s sake. _

“Uh, sure,” Chiara finally says, pulling out a stool and sitting down.  _ I’m going to regret this, aren’t I. _

“I think I’ll make a sidecar for myself,” Anneliese muses, pulling out two bottles and glancing back and forth between them, then turning an inquisitive eye to Chiara. “And you?”

Chiara shrugs. “Don’t care. I’m not picky.”

Anneliese huffs lightly, amusement flitting across her face. “Alright, then. You’ll get a surprise.”

And she gets started, presumably on hers first: she puts a glass in the freezer, then takes another one out, along with an orange and a peeler from the pantry. Into the shaker goes the ice. Then she adds carefully measured portions of Cognac and Grand Marnier, along with a stream of lemon juice and a trickle of water, shaking the whole thing vigorously—

_ It’s funny. I can see she’s shaking it really hard, really quickly, but she looks so calm doing it. Her face— really, the only way I can tell she’s putting any effort in is her hands. _

_ Musician’s hands. That’s what Daniel said. _

Anneliese’s fingers grip the shaker so tight her nails blanch, the clatter of ice on metal ringing in the empty kitchen, and just as quickly as she starts she immediately sets the shaker down, peeling a twist of orange rind. Chiara begins to find herself transfixed: Anneliese rubs it lightly between her fingers, brushes it over the rim of the glass and across the bottom, and pours the whole mixture in. Orange twist dropped on top. A nearly imperceptible nod, then she lifts the glass and takes a sip.

“Alright,” Anneliese says. “Your turn.”

She takes the other glass out of the freezer, dropping in a handful of ice before quickly pouring in three different bottles Chiara can’t quite make out. Then, the same trickle of water. Taking a long bar spoon, she stirs, peels up another orange twist to garnish, and slides the finished glass across the counter.

“Oh,” Chiara says, clears her throat. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Enjoy your negroni,” Anneliese says. “I hope it’s not too strong.”

Chiara takes a sip, then another, and huffs indignantly. “As if.”

It  _ might  _ be a little too strong for two in the morning, but she can handle it. Actually, it tastes kind of good— Chiara has never really been a fancy cocktail person or someone who particularly enjoyed the taste of alcohol, because drinking is drinking at the end of the day, but it tastes pretty alright for something so strong. It’s bitter, tangy, zesty with orange. Essentially, it tastes like alcohol. She can taste the gin, see the clear reddish color of some mystery liquor shining in the glass.

“It’s alright,” she says.

Anneliese raises a skeptical eyebrow, but Chiara’s too committed to her drink right now to be pissed at it. They sip in silence. After a while, Anneliese sets down her glass, about half of her drink still there.

“You probably think I’m an alcoholic, drinking here in the middle of the night,” she remarks. Chiara bites down hard on the urge to burst out laughing, because  _ actually, I’m the alcoholic in the room, and this is the first time someone’s let me drink in a year. But alright. _

“I actually received some… news,” Anneliese continues. “Truthfully, you should know about it first, so I’m glad I caught you. I was trying to figure out how to break it to everyone.”

Now it’s Chiara’s turn to raise an eyebrow—  _ this sounds like the opposite of good. This sounds like the exact true polar opposite of it. _

“Essentially,” Anneliese says, her voice drawn out into a sigh. “I’m not sure you remember our conversation about Julie—”

“I remember.”  _ God, who the hell wouldn’t? _

“Alright, well, Julie contacted me again. And she’s looking to…” Anneliese sighs again, slumps into her drink and takes a miserable-looking gulp. “This is just a little too warm for me. God. I’m sorry, I’ll get to the point— she was inquiring about possibly hosting her wedding here. At the Quill.”

“I—” Chiara recoils, a heavy scowl already rising on her face. “A wedding. A fucking  _ wedding—  _ can we even do that? Why here?”

Anneliese takes a deep breath and pushes her drink to the side. “We’ve hosted several small weddings at the Quill before, so it’s not exactly new. Julie actually worked here before the rest of us for a while, so she knows it quite well, she’s looking to host a smaller ceremony anyway…”

“Didn’t you say she just got engaged?”

Anneliese shrugs. “Julie’s like that. She does it fully or she doesn’t do it at all.”

_ Doing it fully or not at all. Seems like it’s the recurring theme during my time on this bitch of an earth. _

“Anyways,” Anneliese says. “I wasn’t sure how to approach it. Of course, I’m… I’m happy for her. I just don’t know. It’s practically a given we’ll be hosting it no matter what, though.”

Chiara can’t help the exasperated huff she lets out. “Okay, this is fucking ridiculous. She’s about to get married to some other random person.  _ Married. _ Come on.”

Anneliese huffs right back, rolling her eyes. “You wouldn’t understand it. It’s all different with Julie.”

“What about Daniel? Is it  _ different  _ with him?”  _ He can’t stop gushing about you, meanwhile you’re… doing whatever this is. This is so dumb. _

“I… well, he’s a different person. But— yes, it’s different with Daniel and Julie.”

Chiara spitefully gulps up the rest of her drink, the alcohol burning like hell in her throat, her head already starting to buzz. “Well, it sounds like you guys need to suck it up. Full offense.”

“What—” Anneliese flinches, very clearly offended. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You had a good thing, and now it’s over,” Chiara shrugs, “and you’re not getting it back. And it’s none of your business. Feel however you want to feel, but don’t get it twisted. It’s over, for whatever reason. Over. If you fuck up, you fuck up, and you get to take a long and hard look at the results. If that means having a wedding here, I guess we’re having a goddamn wedding. If that means accepting how shitty you are, I guess you have to get to that acceptance and let them go. Not a big deal. Suck it up.”

The alcohol feels like nothing and a lot at the same time.  _ I hate this. I’m so fucking weak, where did my tolerance go. Why did I agree to drinking that. I promised Feli, why did I slip up, why did I say all of that. Why is this making me remember—  _

_ Him. Everything.  _ Her mouth throbs with real bitterness.  _ I’m such an idiot. I feel sick. _

Anneliese looks like she’s about to escalate the argument by punching Chiara in the face— and then she deflates, grabs her glass and drinks the rest.

“You know, I don’t have a clue in the slightest about what your situation is or was,” she says, her voice worn out and weighed down, “but you’re right. I needed to hear that. I’ll email Julie and manage the event myself. Good night.”

And she sweeps herself upright, snatching both of their glasses and her bartending set and dropping it all in the sink, before leaving the kitchen with the door ajar.

_ What the hell just happened? _


	11. somewhat sincere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And the Lord on death row  
> While the millions of his lost and lonely ones  
> Call out and clamor to be found  
> Caught in their struggle for higher positions  
> And their search for love that sticks around."  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["The Same Situation"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2Wo9JgNlQMo)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs for this chapter: thinking about past trauma, drug use, and sexual trauma (no assault or violence, but using sex/drugs to self-harm). like other topics I've covered, the wording is pretty vague and more emotional than factual, simply because 1) many people process/view their traumas emotionally rather than factually as a way to separate themselves from the events and 2) reading graphic descriptions of trauma is not fun for anyone. this is a pretty personal topic for me ngl and I draw from my own experiences and those of my friends/peers, so let me know if I've slipped up and I'll remedy it. if that all sounds triggering skip the big paragraph that starts with "It." italicized
> 
> this is quite the chapter though! it was great to write, and I really do appreciate and cherish yall who left comments/thoughts <3 
> 
> I'll update this weekend. please enjoy :)

Anneliese doesn’t bring up that night to Chiara again, only emailing her a list of dates and reservation details. Everything seems to fall into place in a whirlwind, and before she knows it, they’ve already finalized the date in August. It’s right in the middle of their busy season, right when people are going on last-ditch vacations— thankfully, the wedding party is small enough it doesn’t mess with preexisting reservations, but she already feels the impending headache from having to juggle all of it. She’s never interacted with a bride in a customer service setting who hasn’t been a total bitch, and there’s  _ two. _

Isabel and Daniel’s reception to the news is mixed at best. Daniel immediately takes a sick day after Chiara sends out a brief memo about possible early preparations they can make, something she can’t decide if she hates or relates to. Life goes on. Before she knows it, it’s already the students’ last day.

So far, dinner looks like a promising affair. She and Isabel are cutting vegetables and doing prep work late in the afternoon, and Chiara has to admit to herself just how excited she is to eat all of it, from chili-paste marinated chicken wings to stir-fried glass noodles—  _ we’d never be able to cook this kind of stuff for the normal clientele, and it’s not even that adventurous. I’m so ready. _

She’s taking bags of marinated meat out of the freezer when Isabel’s phone starts chiming and flashing like crazy, and her eyes bulge wide when she picks it up.

“What!” Isabel cries, phone pressed to her ear. “Are you serious?”

Chiara freezes, swallows down the jump of her nerves, glancing up and expecting some kind of horrific news or tears. But it’s the opposite— Isabel dissolves into loud, free laughter instead, swinging herself up onto the kitchen counter and stretching her legs.

“This is crazy— why didn’t you tell me before?” she says. “I would have… oh, I see, that’s amazing! I’m so happy for you!”

Chiara lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, turning back to the bowl of short ribs she’s defrosting.  _ One of Isabel’s millions of friends, probably. Nothing special.  _

“Oh, I’d love to— ah, actually, I’m really busy with work today,” Isabel says, and now she’s frowning, biting her lip and glancing over the kitchen. “Yeah. Well, what can you do… Yep! Ha, of course. Anytime. Listen, I’ll call you back, okay?”

Chiara goes about her business and tries to keep her thoughts on the food, rereading Yong-Soo’s scribbled-down recipes tacked up on the wall, the delicious sweet-spiciness in the air, anything beside eavesdropping on Isabel and whatever she’s up to now— and some sly part of her starts to whisper,  _ she’s sad and wants to spend time with that friend of hers, she’s giving up her time to cook for these students on their last day—  _

_ Well, it’s her job, it’s her schedule, what can you do indeed.  _ Isabel laughs again, says a quick goodbye. Chiara resolves to keep her mouth shut.

It’s barely ten minutes in, as Chiara’s seasoning pork cutlets and Isabel’s whisking up some kind of sauce, when all of that resolve goes out the window.

“Who was that?” Chiara asks.

Isabel glances up with a smile. “Oh, the phone call? My old friend Marianne says she’s in town for tonight! We’ll probably catch up tomorrow morning, depending on what time she has to leave… she’s just passing through, but hopefully I’ll catch her.”

“Oh,” Chiara says, then as an afterthought, “that’s nice.”

Isabel beams back. “I haven’t really seen her for a couple years, so yeah! Gotta finish these noodles, though—”

“Actually,” Chiara cuts in— and immediately regrets it, regrets her big mouth and impulsive self and reflexive desire to just let Isabel do whatever the hell she wants, but it’s too late and the rest of it spills out— “Actually, we’re mostly done. So if, uh.”

_ I am so… _

“If you still want to, you can go,” Chiara says, though it’s soupy and slurred in her mouth. Her face is already starting to burn. “I can deal with the rest of it. And the students.”

Isabel’s jaw literally drops. Chiara doesn’t know if she should be flattered or offended.

“Wait, you’re serious?” Isabel asks, leaning forward, her necklace dangling right in front of Chiara’s face like some kind of fucked-up lure. “Because I’d really feel so bad just  _ leaving _ you here by yourself, I know you’re— I mean, it’s just easier to work with someone else, and there are so many of them…”

Chiara’s face and neck are on fire at this point. “I mean it,” she manages to say, strained, probably leaning back an inappropriate amount. “Um, you can go right now. If you want. It’s not a problem—”

And—

It happens entirely too fast for Chiara to even start to comprehend: Isabel hops off the counter, and she  _ leans in,  _ and she  _ fucking wraps her arms around me, like I’m a tree in a hurricane, she’s giving me a hug. She’s giving me a hug. She smells really good and her hair is in my face and she put her chin on my shoulder and she’s warm and she’s giving me a hug, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck. _

It’s entirely too long, it’s a meager couple of seconds, and when Isabel finally detaches herself and claps Chiara on the shoulder, it feels like her brain is just… gone.

“I appreciate it  _ so much, _ seriously,” Isabel says, grinning like crazy. “Thanks a million. Thank you so much. I’m forever in your debt. Thank you.”

Chiara moves her mouth and attempts to form words along the lines of “It’s fine,” “It’s not a big deal,” though it probably sounds more like mumbled nonsense, and Isabel gives her shoulder a tight squeeze that’s somehow worse than the entirety of the hug.

_ I think… I think I’m just going to leave my body. I’m going to leave my soul. I’m going to die. I’m going to transcend the concept of dying and and just cease to exist. I’m going to. When’s the last time someone who wasn’t Feli hugged me? When’s the last time touching another human being made me feel an emotion like that— other than him, other than that sliver of time way back then— I’m like a thirteen year old boy when a woman breathes in his vicinity. I can’t handle this. _

“Chiara?” Isabel says, cocking her head slightly.

Chiara clears her throat, attempts to breathe through her nose at a normal rate. “Yep. Yes. I got it. Grill the meat, cook the noodles, all of that, got it, it’s fine.”

Isabel shoots quite possibly her sweetest, most good-natured smile yet in Chiara’s direction, speeding out of the kitchen in a whirlwind of talking to herself and texting. 

_ And I’m alone again. _

_ Oh, God, I can’t believe that just happened. I can’t believe I did that. _

“Chiara!” someone else calls, and Daniel sticks his head into the kitchen with a smile. 

_ Please end me. It’s just one after the other today. _

“Isabel just left?” he asks, pulling his hair back and tying it up.

Chiara nods, trying to keep her face dry and uninterested, trying to keep her composure. “Yeah. If you’re free, julienne and saute the carrots.”

Daniel laughs and abruptly gives her a solid slap on the back—  _ what the  _ fuck _ is with people touching me today? _

“You look happy!” he says, grinning slyly, reaching over to grab a knife.

“No clue what you’re talking about.” And oh, the flush is back, screaming  _ huge fucking liar _ across her cheeks and nose, and Chiara quickly turns to busy herself with checking the time on the rice cooker before she really explodes.

“Seriously,” Daniel chirps behind her, “and Isabel was so glad you let her out last minute like that— it’s good of you.”

Chiara can’t help snorting at that. “That’s… ridiculous.”

“What? I’m serious! Marianne was one of her best friends, so that’s—”

“Speaking of best friends,” Chiara mutters, her embarrassment already solidifying into a scathing determination to get back at him. “Care to discuss?”

“Okay, low blow,” Daniel says, putting up his hands in mock defense, an easy smile on his face. “Really, you’re in a good mood today, huh?”

“Carrots,” Chiara says, waving her hand dismissively in her best imitation of him. If he catches it, he doesn’t comment, just smiles to himself and gets to cutting the vegetables while she heats up a pot of water. They don’t talk after that.

* * *

An hour passes quickly, and before she knows it all the food is laid out, and the students bring Mr. Wang in with an excessive amount of fanfare, all rushing at Chiara in a suffocating surge of gratitude. Mr. Wang looks mildly embarrassed and pleased at the same time— then he, too, thanks Chiara and Daniel much more than he should, and sits down to eat.

It’s like the entire room shrinks down to him and the bite of food he’s about to take, even Chiara finding herself holding her breath as he lifts a forkful of noodles, chewing with the utmost neutrality on his face:

And he nods, almost imperceptibly. And swallows, and takes another bite, then another, and everyone seems to deflate back into chatter and smiles. 

_ Oh, thank God. Those students would have crucified me otherwise. Yong-Soo especially, seeing as he cornered me about using the exact brand of sweet potato noodles like we were swapping nuclear codes.  _

“Everything needs to be exactly correct, this is the  _ only _ Korean food Professor Wang will let me cook for him— he really needs it to be amazing— oh, make sure you add plenty of sesame,” he had quickly whispered to her in the hallway, flashing a picture of the packaging on his absurdly large phone. 

It’s all over now, though, so Chiara sits in the corner with her plate of food and prepares to go all in. There’s a lot of it. It looks really good. Everyone seems to be enjoying it, and… 

_ I’m kind of proud of myself. _

_ God, that’s so gross. I made a fuckton of food, and I served a lot of people. I did my job. Nothing to be proud of, but it’s alright. Meeting the bare minimum. _

_ I don’t know. Maybe I’m a little bit capable of this after all. They look happy. _

The food is unquestionably delicious, though.  _ Everyone really came through on these recipes.  _ She has a little bit of everything on her plate: savory and silky japchae from Yong-Soo, clear noodles sauteed with succulent mushrooms and greens and slivers of marinated beef; crispy fried chicken wings from Leon, the meat tender and drizzled with a honeyed chili sauce; Mei’s braised short ribs, fragrant and spiced to perfection; seared and salted mackerel, stir-fried water spinach studded with chili and garlic, everything hot and delicious and better than she’d expect from herself.

_ It’s all because of the recipes. I’m surprised I could read them at all, considering how half of them were scribbled on napkins and tiny scraps of paper. Turned out amazing regardless. _

It’s all good and well until it’s interrupted. To nobody’s surprise, Daniel sits himself down right next to her, his own plate piled with food.

“This is great!” he says with a smile. “You should be proud of yourself, accommodating guests on this level isn’t easy. And you did it so well—”

Chiara huffs, swallows her food. “That’s ridiculous. I’m just doing the job forced on me.”

Daniel shrugs and raises his eyebrows. “Well, you did a damn good job, that’s for sure.”

“Whatever.” Another bite of chicken.

“Like, you literally just catered a party. That’s crazy.”

Chiara bites her cheek, twirls some noodles onto her fork. “Huh. I guess it’s practice, then.”

“What— oh. Come  _ on, _ not the wedding again,” Daniel sighs. “Look, are you still mad at me for taking that sick day? Because I genuinely wasn’t feeling well.”

“No, I just think you guys are being irritating as fuck about it all,” she snorts. And something buried deep in her trickles out, building, growing into a stinging flood for the second time in a few days. “And I had this exact same conversation with Anneliese the other day? I’m a fucking broken record, just saying this over and over. No clue what’s not clicking. I have no idea what anyone’s deal is, and it all sounds like a bunch of bullshit, whatever it is, because it is. It’s irritating. It’s ridiculous. Get over yourself.”

Daniel’s silent— when she turns to him, his face is drawn, dimmed-down, almost…  _ pitiful.  _

_ Should I feel bad? I don’t—  _

_ I don’t feel bad. I feel like an asshole. As it should be. _

“You know what’s pretty ridiculous?” Daniel finally says. “Running out of a job you’re perfect for because of your own delusions. Have you picked a replacement yet?”

And—

Now they’re both there, staring at each other, trapped in that gut-churning silence, the kind of silence that starts awkward and ends unbearable. Chiara clutches her plate of food and swallows hard.

_ You know what he looks like right now? _

_ He looks disappointed. Disappointed in you. Like you’re sixteen in a teen movie and you just crashed your car, like he’s not angry, just  _ disappointed, _ not screaming, not berating, not humiliating. Just disappointed. _

“I’m sorry,” she blurts. And all her anger and frustration suddenly feels intensely misdirected, suddenly freezes up into cold nothingness, and she blinks and swallows that furious pride in her throat. “I’m sorry. I’m frustrated.”

Daniel blinks, stares at her for what feels like the longest five seconds of her life. Then he dissolves into a sigh, shaking his head.

“Oh, Chiara,” he says, smiling ruefully. “It’s fine. Don’t… don’t worry about it. I crossed a line.”

“No, I—”  _ Don’t say it. Stop talking. Let it be. Let it pass. _

_ No. Fuck, apologize. Apologize. _

It’s like something inside her falls away, crumbling into nothing, and without the heaviness of a wall to hold it down her voice seeps out.

“You guys are just pissing me off a lot more than you should be, and that’s just my fault,” Chiara says. “It just. Reminds me of shit. I don’t even know what happened, I just feel like. I don’t know. Sorry. I don’t know.”

Daniel frowns, takes a bite of food. “You don’t have to be sorry. I get it. We don’t like to talk about anything, it’s pretty reasonable— do you mean it reminds you of yourself, or…”

_ I just talked myself into some fucking psychoanalysis and I don’t even know. I don’t even know what I’m doing. I don’t know why I keep talking. I can’t stop saying this. _

She finds herself fidgeting with the edge of her plate, staring down at the way light reflects off her fork, the way the ambient noise and conversation flows all around her like she’s a rock in a stream, fast and rough around her unyielding silence.

“I don’t know,” she finally says again, her mouth and brain refusing to cooperate further, her feelings digging her deeper, “I don’t know. I just can’t stand people moping over how shitty they were. It’s just projection, that’s really my whole personality, but I can’t. I hate it. And I have no clue why you guys aren’t together or any of it so it’s just complete speculation on my part, and I’m just assuming you guys did the same shit I did but to each other, because I like to pretend everyone else is just as fucking horrible as I am—”

_ Stop. Stop, stop this right now. Stop. _

Her first instinct is to clap her hands over her mouth. Cut out her tongue. Wipe Daniel’s memory. Phase out of existence.  _ I can’t believe myself. I can’t stop. It just wants to keep coming, and coming, and I’ve never even said this shit to myself, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know. _

Daniel clears his throat. “Chiara,” he says, “are you okay?”

_ Please.  _ “Don’t fucking ask me that,” she chokes out, and her eyes are desert-dry but the rest of her body feels like it’s going into anaphylactic shock.

“Okay,” Daniel says, slow, patient. “Do you want to talk in the kitchen?”

“I—” She can’t make herself say yes, she can’t say no, so she just stands up with her plate. “I’m going to go finish my food.”

Into the kitchen she goes. Daniel doesn’t follow, not yet. The first thing she finishes are the vegetables— they’re good, yes, but the last bite has to be the best. So next goes the noodles, most of the meat, everything else on her plate until the only things left are those tender, delicious short ribs, falling off the bone, each bite perfectly between too lean and too fatty. 

_ I want to cry, but I can’t. I want to disappear, I want to let go, but I can’t. I can’t. _

The rest of the food disappears in no time, and she puts her plate in the big dishwasher and eats a clementine from the pantry. Then she sits at the counter and puts her head down and breathes until it feels like the cold metal on her forehead is just an extension of her brain.

An eternity passes. Someone settles into the stool at the end of the counter and clears their throat. It’s Daniel, again.

“Hey,” he says. “Feeling any better?”

She can’t bring herself to respond for a while. Then: “Yeah. I guess so.”

It’s not a complete lie. At this point it feels less like she’s drowning in a stormy, endless ocean of it all and more like she’s sitting in the deep end, staring at the rippling bottom of the pool with cooled-down pressure on all sides.

“You know,” Daniel says. “I’m glad you’re calling Anneliese and me out on our shit, I gotta say. And we really are reacting poorly— I’ll be the first to admit we didn’t handle a lot of things perfectly.”

“Huh.”

“Really. We give ourselves passes on it, but you’re right. Having that outside perspective is really important.”

Chiara leans down further, presses her cheek into the cold counter. “That’s why Isabel wanted me to take over as Roberto’s temp.”

“Outside perspective?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, she’s right,” he says. “Fresh eyes are important. And yes, it has been a little inappropriate, and difficult, and ruder than necessary—”

She can’t help laughing at that one. “You’re welcome. I’m such an asshole.”

Daniel laughs too, slides his stool closer to the table. “Well, I’ve learned to not take anything too seriously. I mean what I say, though. And I genuinely care about what  _ you  _ have to say.”

She lifts her head for this one— looks into his face, kind, open, present. “About what?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Whatever you have to say. Whatever you need to get out. Whatever makes you feel better. I can’t promise anything, and I’m not a therapist, but I don’t know, sometimes people do need to talk.”

_ God, I really don’t. _

“You do, too,” he adds.

“I don’t,” Chiara grits out. “I’m just shitty.”

Daniel shrugs again. “We all do shitty things. You’re not alone in that.”

“No, I’m  _ really— _ ” She cuts herself off, swallows thickly. “I just keep beating around the bush. I can’t even talk about any of it, that’s how fucked— I just can’t. I don’t want to.”

“What, did you kill someone?”

“Do I look like a murderer?”

Daniel grins at that, laughs brightly. “I mean, I wouldn’t be too surprised.”

She rolls her eyes at that. “This is ridiculous.”

“Well, that’s the way things are, isn’t it.”

“I—”

_ I’m going to regret this. I’m going to regret everything. I always do. _

“Well, have you ever,” she says, every word a horrible, slow strain to force out. “Have you ever felt… ‘What’s wrong with me?’ Have you ever felt that?”

Daniel bites his lip like he’s struggling not to laugh, which is equal parts infuriating and relatable. “Do you see me? Do you see how I look? My graduating class had barely over a hundred people. I don’t think I ever felt like there was a single ‘right’ thing about me until I hit twenty-two.”

“I…”  _ That’s funny, actually. I was twenty-two back then. _ “I mean. That wasn’t me. I was fine. I was normal. No, that’s not true— I—”

She takes a deep breath, a breath that feels like it’s the first one in years. Daniel leans forward imperceptibly, chin resting on his hand, looking at her with those open eyes.

“I just couldn’t feel it,” she says at last.

“Feel what?”

_ It.  _ At that party when she was fifteen, everything moving too slowly, nodding yes, feeling so incredibly out of place and lonely and confused and shutting that door and  _ not feeling it,  _ feeling scared, feeling way too fucking high, feeling nothing. Feeling someone’s arms around her, feeling something happening, feeling nothing. Not fear, really— nothing. Feeling like  _ I wanted this but it’s nothing. _ Feeling like  _ I’m not supposed to feel nothing but I feel nothing. _ And the soft, sinking mattress at her coworker’s apartment, her other coworker, that college kid, humiliation, the unadulterated  _ nothing _ before-during-after, the shame, the pain, the repetition over and over and over again of nothing nothing nothing, too much drinking, too much smoking, too much sex. Too much nothing. Again and again, cutting and icy, and even when someone broke through that nothing—

There was just. Nothing.

“Can I give you a hug?” Daniel says.

Chiara can’t make her mouth move, can’t force air out of her throat. Shaking her head feels like too much. So she just sits there— and she sits through her second hug of the day, warm, solid, carefully holding her from the side— and it feels alright.

_ I don’t feel alright. But it feels alright. _

“Okay,” she finally says, after she feels a little more like a normal human being and less like a buzz of static drifting through the void, after that horrible drone in her head melts down to a manageable hum. “Enough.”

Daniel gives her a final squeeze and lets go. 

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” he says, “but you know I’m here. Even if I’m just a coworker to you— we’re all friends here, and I hope you know that.”

“...Yeah,” she says. “Sure.”

Daniel snorts. “What, do I have to share something horrific to prove myself?”

“Wouldn’t hurt,” Chiara says, and she laughs, as if she’s alright, as if she feels happy. She feels— light. A little bit freer. They stay there until the students wrap up, and they wash dishes and sanitize everything, and she goes to bed feeling wrung out and hollow and weightless.

* * *

Waking up the next morning is intense— it’s as if her head was wiped clean, and she’s a newborn blinking up at the world around her for the first time, the sheets and walls and sunlight feeling novel and alien. 

_ It’s a few minutes after breakfast… fuck it. I deserve a break. They can deal with doing their own thing for a little longer. _

She closes her eyes again, basks in the sun, lets it lull her into soft sleep.  _ We really are in the middle of June. It feels like summer. _

When she finally changes, showers, and goes downstairs, it’s a little past eleven. Isabel’s sitting on the sofa in the main room, staring into the empty fireplace and holding a cup of coffee.

“Oh! Hi,” she says, turning to Chiara. “How’d everything turn out?”

Chiara shrugs. “It was fine. Did you check the students out?”

“Yep, and we got an  _ amazing _ tip,” Isabel says with a grin. “It’s too bad you couldn’t say bye. They really wanted to thank you again.”

“Huh.”

“They did! Oh, there’s still some coffee in the kitchen— do you want it?”

Under normal circumstances Chiara would make a beeline for it, but for once she actually… feels well-rested.  _ How the tables have turned. _

“I’m fine,” she says.

“The night went well, though?”

Chiara shrugs. “Sure. How was… yours?”

Isabel’s face lights up, and she whips out her phone, beckoning vigorously. “It was great! Come here, I’ll show you— we took lots of pictures, we talked for so long— it was so nice to catch up, honestly. I mean, she’ll be coming to Julie’s wedding, but still.”

Chiara drags herself over and sits on the edge of the sofa, as far from Isabel as she can without looking weird. Isabel scoots closer before she even has a chance to settle in, photos in hand, and for the first time in a while Chiara really notices her necklace again. The stone is teardrop-shaped, a gorgeous, glimmering sky blue— the chain is gold, delicate, glowing against Isabel’s tan, making the blue look that much brighter. It looks expensive. It looks regal. It’s just a beautiful, beautiful necklace.

_ Stop staring. This is so weird. Look at her pictures— listen to what she’s saying. _

“So this is Marianne, right,” Isabel says, and she swipes from a shot of a pine tree to a picture of someone who’s probably the one of most attractive women Chiara has ever seen, sitting across a table and smirking lazily. She looks like she should be on a magazine: high cheekbones, a striking nose and cupid’s bow, tied-back hair wisping around her face like she’s styled for a photoshoot.

“She’s very…” Chiara starts, swallows.

Isabel laughs. “I know, right? She used to model in high school.”

She swipes to the next picture, a selfie where the two of them are mock-frowning at each other, another where they’re laughing, another where they’re making dumb faces, hair windswept and eyes bright. The lighting is kind of shit. They both look stupidly, horrifically, unfairly good.

_ God, they’re both so— I hate this already. I feel like I’m looking at some famous person’s Instagram account. I feel like an unwashed rat. _

“We went to hang out at the docks at night, like we used to,” Isabel says, and she swipes again to another selfie in the dark, a picture where she’s grinning and Marianne is kissing her on the cheek—

“Oops, nope—” Isabel laughs, her voice awkward, and swipes to a picture of the sky.

Chiara’s throat clamps down, her palms start to sweat for no apparent reason, she— she clears her throat.

“What, are you guys, like…”

Isabel’s nervous laughter intensifies—  _ I seriously can’t tell if she’s just embarrassed, or lying, or what—  _ and she shakes her head vigorously.

“No! No, that’s crazy. We’re just friends, that’s just how we always act, ask anyone. Oh, and besides, Marianne is really straight—”

“I mean, good for you, um, if you want it to be a thing,” Chiara says, her pulse thundering loud in her ears.  _ This is so weird. This is so awkward. Why can’t I spit it out? I don’t want her to think I’m being judgy, I don’t want her to think anything, I’m just… _

“No, seriously, don’t worry,” Isabel blurts, holding up a hand, “I have absolutely no interest in Marianne. At all. Zero interest whatsoever. She’s like my sister, she’s one of my best friends. I’m not trying to become Daniel and Anneliese, swear on it.”

Chiara frowns, because—

_ Don’t worry? Don’t worry about what? Why would I… _

She opens her mouth to say something. Then she closes it, because they’re sitting next to each other, and she’s suddenly aware of a strand of Isabel’s hair tickling her shoulder, she thinks about that hug, she thinks about how Isabel’s hand on the couch is way too fucking close, threatening to cross the line, and she swallows hard.

_ Are we. Am I—? _

_ The sunlight is hitting her necklace in just the right way. It looks really nice. _

_ She looks… _

“Anyways!” Isabel says, rushed, swiping to the next picture, and when she zooms in and leans a little closer Chiara can smell that woodsy, bright cologne, and it’s just too much. It’s entirely, truly too much.

_ Stop. Stop. This is too much. I can’t do this. I just can’t. _

Isabel turns to her—

And they look at each other—

And Chiara’s phone starts to chime a very familiar ringtone— and it all shatters, and when she picks it up Feli’s voice is loud and frantic in her ear.

“You need to come to the hospital right now,” he says. “Grandpa’s up.”


	12. blindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every picture has its shadows  
> And it has some source of light  
> Blindness, blindness and sight  
> The perils of benefactors  
> The blessings of parasites  
> Blindness, blindness and sight."  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["Shadows and Light"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SSfWH6jWj5g)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the one time I promise a due date I post late... all thanks to google docs crashing my whole computer on me because of this taking up a 130pg document :) (I also don't have word, so I had to spend some time reorganizing everything... nightmare). anyways that really threw me off my rhythm and I ended up scrapping a whole chunk and being very unproductive in general, but hopefully my computer Stops Doing That and I will be back to updating often! apologies in advance if this chapter is weirdly edited I just wanted to get it posted tbh
> 
> ngl these chapters are just getting wilder lmao. CWs: some contemplation of suicide in the middle of the chapter, but it's more abstract than anything.
> 
> also I'm considering being on tumblr/twt/etc as a writer but I also don't know if posting random pictures of food I cook then writing about it is the model I'm going for? do any ppl (other than art accs) even do that anymore. also can yall believe it's almost june
> 
> anyways idk what I'm on about but I really hope you enjoy :)) thank you to everyone who has given me love I love you all <333

The drive down to the hospital is probably one of the worse things Chiara’s had to do in her life. She takes the Quill’s van, mostly because she doesn’t want to be liable for crashing Isabel’s car, and she feels a million times less prepared or in control than she ever has. Punching in the address on her phone took several minutes— and now she’s white-knuckling it down the road, praying she doesn’t get pulled over— there’s so much in her head, she doesn’t even know where to start.

“He’s been awake and unconscious on and off, but he’s up for real now,” Feli had said. The thought of seeing them is so much harder than it should be.

_What am I going to say to him? How am I going to fix things? I don’t know if I can look him in the face. I don’t know how I’m going to talk about working at the Quill at all. And I really haven’t seen Feli once this whole time._

_Isn’t that so shitty of me? Ghosted my own twin brother for a month. Didn’t visit my comatose grandfather once. And now I’m finally showing up._

A red minivan swerves around her, uncomfortably close, and Chiara is suddenly filled with so much rage in that moment she just wants to play bumper cars and kill someone. Her head throbs, no amount of breathing feels like enough— she had turned the radio to some classical station in a shitty attempt to calm herself down, except now the violins feel like they’re stabbing her, and she still doesn’t know why she’s so…

Nervy. Panicked. Afraid.

 _I just feel so fucking open. I feel like he’s going to take one look at me and just know everything, like everything around me got peeled away and there’s nothing left except for_ this.

Finally pulling up to the hospital is somehow more of a relief. _Maybe I can just get this over with._ Chiara swerves into a parking space far away from other cars, scrambling out of the van and locking it all up, checking her reflection in the mirror.

_Everything’s in place. I look normal. I look fine, I look healthy, even._

_As if. I look anemic. They’ll probably accidentally put me in the hospital with him._

She’s barely through the automatic sliding door when she senses Feli— and then she sees him, staring at her with the widest eyes she’s ever seen, and he doesn’t even talk, just reaches for her.

_This is the third hug in two days. I swear, people are infecting each other or something._

“Chiara,” Feli says into her shoulder, his voice cracking. “I’m so glad.”

“Hey,” she says instead, because validating his sappiness is not something she can take right now, settling on just patting him on the back so she doesn’t look completely horrible. “Um, is he awake right now?”

Feli sniffles. _Oh, God, he’s crying. I’m not ready._ “Yeah, he’s waiting up there,” he mumbles, his arms finally loosening.

“I…” Chiara gulps, realizes she’s never been here, she hasn’t seen him in a month, and the way he smells is already nostalgic— 

_I just left him to deal with this by himself._

She clears her throat, and for the first time the words come out clear and unbroken. “I haven’t visited, at all. It’s shitty. I’m sorry.”

Feli loosens himself, already vehemently shaking his head with that frail bravado on his face. “No! Of course not,” he says, his voice wavering. “You’re completely fine. Never apologize, you didn’t do anything. Really, I should be the one saying something, I’ve been so down and difficult ever since this all happened…”

_Oh, like me for the last twenty-four years of my life. What the hell are you on?_

Chiara has a sudden urge to punch him in the face right here, to grab him by the shoulders and shake until he _stops,_ but they’re in a hospital. He’s being a fool, but this is a hospital. So she bites her tongue and stares at him and prays, prays that he can feel the glare she’s aiming at him, a glare that doesn’t seem to be doing anything.

“Shut up,” she finally says, spits out.

“I’m sorry,” Feli says, sounding genuinely sorry.

 _God, I already hate this. And I haven’t even talked to Roberto._ “Stop it. Let’s just go.”

Feli sticks his hands in his pockets, visibly gulping. “O-okay.”

So they get checked in, making their way up to Roberto’s room. The hospital is small, cramped, clearly old and in need of maintenance. It has that old doctor’s office smell, and the hallways are tiled with ugly greige linoleum— the thought of Feli spending weeks here, walking through these beaten-down hallways, sitting by Roberto’s body, all by himself—

They get to the correct room, and they open the door, and Chiara sees Roberto for what must be the first time in a few years. Her first thought— 

_He looks almost-dead. He looks so weak._

He is. The last time she saw him, he was strong, broad, looming over everything, and now he looks about ten years older and thirty pounds lighter, like he really is seventy years old. Even his hair, something she distinctly remembers being well-maintained and curly and defined, is dull and graying. 

Really, he just looks old. Frail.

_No wonder Feli sounds like he’s caving in. It’s like Roberto’s body is falling apart in front of me._

“Chiara!” he calls out, his voice weaker but still steady. “Is that you?”

“It’s me,” she says shortly, stepping over the threshold, moving between the IV stand and monitor screen to see him. 

His face opens into a smile, and this is the one thing that’s just like she remembers. Sunny, like Feli’s. Open, strong, sturdy.

“Feliciano has had nothing but good to say about how you’ve been handling things,” he says, and _doesn’t that sound familiar._ “How’s the Quill been treating you?”

“Fine, especially since I’m apparently the innkeeper now,” Chiara mutters. 

Roberto laughs. “I’m sure you’re doing good. And I hope you’re getting along with the rest of the staff.”

She can’t help rolling her eyes at that, something that only makes him laugh more.

“I’m really glad,” he says. “It’s a tough job. Good to hear you’re working hard.”

Chiara scoffs. “It’s all your fault. You’ve been getting weak.”

“Chiara!” Feli says, sounding equally shocked and horrified.

“What? It’s true.”

Roberto chuckles, shakes his head. “Your sister’s right. This old man isn’t doing so well.”

Chiara reaches for one of the plastic chairs against the wall and plants herself firmly in it. “What, do you know anything about when you’re getting out?”

“The doctor told us he still needs to do physical therapy,” Feli chimes in. “And some other rehabilitative stuff. But they’re expecting a month or two, if everything goes well—”

“A _month,_ really?” Chiara says.

Roberto smiles grimly. “I can’t walk, Chiara. It’ll take time.”

 _I can’t walk, Chiara._

The words magnify themselves in her head, interspersed with memories— Roberto’s memorabilia from the track and field Olympics Trials, hiking up a trail on her stubby kid-legs and watching him outpace the parents, spraining her ankle on the beach at the Quill— _and here he is now, and all of that youth and vigor is gone._

_He’s old. My grandfather is old._

_God, what a depressing fucking time. And then he’s going to die on us._

“I have to say, I’m just so glad,” Feli says, and tears begin to sneak into his voice again, “that you’re awake, and getting better, and we’re all here together again, you know?”

“So am I,” Roberto says. He turns to smile at her. His eyes are deeply shadowed, dark and wet. “And Chiara, it’s good to see you, really. I appreciate it.”

She clenches her teeth, staring down at her lap. “Yeah.”

He just laughs. “What, do I look that much worse?”

_Yeah, especially since the last time I saw you, you weren’t about to die. And now I show up, and everyone’s acting like I’ve summoned the Messiah, like I’m the second coming, like I’ve done some marvelous charitable deed. I just feel like shit._

_Maybe I should’ve kept up my streak of not showing up until the funeral._

“He looks a lot better, really,” Feli says to her, sitting in the adjacent chair. “Things really weren’t looking so good at first.”

“Ah,” Roberto says, and Chiara abruptly realizes Feli’s exposed her for the piece of shit she is, that Roberto realizes exactly how much time she’s spent in this hospital room compared to her brother—

And he smiles at her. It’s not insistent and forgiving and guilty, like Feli’s, but it’s not cruel, either. It’s just… saddened. Small. It’s like he’s staring into her head, her shame, her pain, and he’s not saying anything about any of it. Just looking. Watching. Seeing her. She can’t tell if there’s understanding in there, just the dark eyes of an old man, blinking and dim, serene.

It’s more uncomfortable than she could have ever imagined. He smiles so aged and changed from his usual boisterousness, so— 

So _not_ him. Chiara can’t help but feel repulsed, withdrawn from that. She can’t help her disgust at his deathly countenance, she can’t help the tiny, pulsing feeling of sadness, helplessness drowning underneath it all, burning away in her chest—

 _It’s just weird. It’s just fucking weird._ It makes her think about the other grandparents they’ve never met, family reunions upon family reunions just filled with sneering aunts and uncles and cousins on one side, complete silence on the other, save for that one smile. 

_Why did the parents even let him near us? It’s a miracle we saw him at all. And yet—_

And yet she’s watching him die now, even though he’s supposed to be getting better, he says he’s getting better, but she just _knows,_ watching him smile at her even though he should be hitting back. 

Funny how things turn out.

It doesn’t feel any easier now. They keep talking for a while, chatting idly about nothing in particular, as if they’re all around a dinner table and talking about their day— except they’re in an aging hospital room, and one of them is hooked up to an IV and looking like a shriveled skeleton. Chiara feels both heavier and lighter when she finally says her goodbyes and leaves, as Feli gives her yet another parting hug, as they exchange meaningless pleasantries clogged with unsaid guilt on her part and broadcasted guilt on Feli’s.

She sits in the van, rolls down the windows, closes her eyes.

_I don’t know why I was so nervous. I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now, I just feel like I’m not a real human being on this planet. I feel like a wisp of smoke. I feel like a pile of ash._

_I can’t keep doing this._

As if to prove her point exactly, her phone buzzes: it’s an email from one of the hospitality employment sites, notifying her of 1 new application submitted to her listing within the last week.

_God, I forgot to check that. I completely forgot. I should look at those, shouldn’t I?_

_What did Daniel say— it’s ridiculous to run away? Disappointing, sad, cowardly— and all Roberto could talk about was how fucking proud he was. He’s so, so proud. Everyone is so proud I’m acting like a functional human every once in a blue moon. Everyone is so fucking proud they can’t even be proud of me when I acknowledge how dysfunctional everything is. Oh, and if Roberto gets back, and there’s some other person in his place, because I thought he’d be dead by now or completely unable to do his job—_

_Everyone’s going to crucify me. I still want—_

_I want—_

Her heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s shaking her whole body with each pulse. She doesn’t know what she wants. She just doesn’t want… everything.

Thinking about Feli’s feelings running across his face, the hugs he kept giving her, his apologies, all of it makes her stomach turn. She thinks about the sunny grin that was omnipresent on his face before all of this— she thinks about a long time ago, sitting in the corner and watching him get shoved around by the parents, watching him smile. She thinks about endless comparisons between them, always redirecting blame to Feli, watching him smile. She thinks about stealing, screaming, terror, a callousness beyond words, beyond comprehension, and Feli smiling. Feeling insane— feeling alone— feeling unsalvageable, and smiling.

And then she thinks about that barren hospital corridor and his trembling voice, and she thinks about the guilt in his eyes when he looks at her.

_I can’t keep doing this. Not now, not later._

Outside, the wind picks up. It swells up cool against humid air, buffeting against her face and blowing her hair around, loud in her ears. It feels nice. It’s grounding.

_I don’t feel grounded at all. I feel like I’m free-falling, like I’m always a second away from hitting the ground, I feel like this is ridiculous. I’m ridiculous._

Nothing feels alright. The drive back to the Quill is just as jittery as the ride to the hospital— now, though, she doesn’t feel anticipation, just an unfathomable amount of turmoil she can’t place, a deep sense of unease at everything she can’t begin to pick at—

_I need a nap. I need to eat, and sleep, and drink water, and shower, and sleep more._

She can’t even cry, can’t even let everything kicking up condense and fall. She doesn’t know what she feels. She doesn’t know what she wants. She drives, and she drives, and when she finally gets back to the Quill it’s a weight off her chest. _God, I never, ever thought that would be the case. Never in a million years. But here we are._

“Chiara!” Daniel calls out the moment she steps into the lodge. He’s a little frantic, sweaty like he’s just sprinted over, eyes wide. “How’d it go? How is he?”

Chiara sighs, takes off her jacket. “He’s fine. He’s awake.”

“When is he getting out?” Isabel’s voice asks— she pops out of the kitchen, jogging over— Anneliese emerges from the hallway too, the three of them all converging on her.

 _Christ._ “He’s stable,” she says, “but he’ll be in inpatient for a month. Maybe more. And he’ll definitely be staying with Feli after.”

Daniel deflates with relief, nodding, and the others mirror him.

“That’s so good to hear,” Isabel says, leaning against the wall with a somber expression. “I hope his recovery goes well, I hope it all turns out okay… oh, can we visit him when we have the chance?”

Chiara shrugs, grabbing her things. “No clue. Talk to Feli. I’m going to bed.”

And she makes her way to her room, the others’ voices trailing and overlapping behind her as they talk, probably about how they’re going to visit him together and make a prayer circle for his recovery and arrange some celebration for his discharge, thoughts that make her feel unbearably unsettled.

Lying in her bed in the middle of the day, staring at the shadows mixing and blurring across her sheets— she can’t stop thinking.

She can’t stop thinking about killing herself. About that disastrous attempt back in her closet in Richmond— and the attempt before, and the one before that, and she had blocked it all off from her head after coming here, but it’s streaming right back in an insufferable torrent of _here are your repressed emotions, here is every single thought and feeling you’ve ever pushed down, drowning you, pushing you down in return, and you get to sit and take it._

_What would it take for me to try again?_

_I just need to wait— for the replacement. I need to check the applications. I need to go over everything. I need to do interviews, I need to set everything up, I need to escape._

She dozes off after a while, sleeps until the river dries up to a stream, a puddle, a trickle, until her whole body drains itself and fills up with nothing all over again.

* * *

Time goes by, whether she likes it or not. Chiara finds herself doing more and more checking in and out, driving guests around with Daniel, having meals with everyone— her own head is remarkably blank. Mostly, she does her job. She doesn’t visit Feli or Roberto again, just responds to texts and calls and sits in her room doing nothing whenever she has free time, and it’s fine.

Everything seems fine— until it’s Isabel’s day off, and Chiara is busy deep-cleaning the kitchen, when the door flings open and hushed voices quickly raise into a full quarrel. It’s Anneliese and Daniel, unsurprisingly.

_Actually, they look like they’re about to kill each other. That’s pretty fucking surprising._

Anneliese looks the most disheveled Chiara has ever seen her, her hair messy and eyes wild, and she’s even wearing a pair of _sweatpants._ They’re definitely too big on her— she looks so abnormal, it’s like a glitch in real life. Daniel, meanwhile, looks about as neat as he always does, but his normal calmness is nowhere to be found, replaced with loud, snarling anger. 

There’s something so indescribably wrong about both of them. There’s so much Chiara can’t grasp in the deep hurt on their faces.

“Don’t you _ever_ tell me that again,” Anneliese hisses. “You have no idea. You will _never_ have any idea.”

Daniel slams a hand on the counter. “That’s bullshit. I have, and I always will— who was there the whole time? Who helped you out, who listened to everything you ever had to say on it, all three emotionally constipated sentences, who actually let you—”

Anneliese scoffs. “You didn’t _let_ me talk to her. I just did it, and you’re angry because you’re jealous about this stupid thing that happened all those years ago.”

“I’m not,” Daniel says, loud and frustrated. “I’m not. I’m not jealous, especially of fucking _Julie,_ she’s not even relevant. I just fucking care about you? I care about it because it’s still relevant to you? Do you think I give a shit anymore, we were together longer than you and her anyway, I just care about _you_ and I don’t know what’s so fucking difficult to understand about that. I think you’re better than this. I don’t—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Chiara says, because her head is already starting to hurt, and this looks like it is, indeed, about something incredibly stupid. She really can’t hold back the scowl on her face when they turn to her, faces open and shocked. _It’s like I’m lecturing a bunch of two year olds with no spatial awareness. This is an establishment, so save it for the bedroom._

She doesn’t break eye contact. “Shut up, or get out of my kitchen.”

Daniel looks like he’s exploding, bursting with rage, every trace of normalcy wiped from his face and replaced with that fury— and he does get out of the kitchen, blowing through the door and letting it slam shut behind him without another word.

“I…” Anneliese says, and she sinks into a stool with the most dejection Chiara’s ever seen on a person’s face.

“What the hell was that about?” Chiara says.

Silence. Anneliese just keeps staring at the counter, her face so open and pained it’s like staring into a wound, and Chiara feels her head throb even more.

“Are you going to answer my question? Or what?”

“Apologies,” Anneliese says, but she doesn’t sound mad or frustrated or sarcastic or any of the things Chiara would normally expect to come out of her mouth. “We usually get along.”

“See, you guys keep saying that, but here we fucking are,” Chiara says, her voice twisting sourly.

Anneliese shrugs. Sighs. “Well, it’s… tense.”

“Are you still on about Julie?”

Another sigh, longer this time. “Of course we are.”

Chiara can’t help snorting at that. She puts everything away, and she washes her hands, and she leans against the counter and stares. Anneliese still doesn’t say a word.

She doesn’t look like she’s going to start crying or anything. (Honestly, Anneliese doesn’t look like someone capable of crying, ever.) Mostly, she stares down at the counter or the floor, and she spends an awful lot of time blinking and looking sorry for herself— _God, is that what I look like all the time?_

It’s both extremely easy to ignore and extremely irritating. Chiara finds herself caving in no time, because _I’m tired and I really don’t have all day for this._

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

Anneliese huffs. “About what?”

Chiara shoots her best _bitch, please_ look in that direction. “You’re wearing _sweatpants,_ for God’s sake. I have a right to know. I’m the motherfucking manager.”

Anneliese shrugs, hair falling in her face. “Like I said. It’s been tense lately. And Daniel’s angry because I’ve been talking to Julie again. No, not like that—” she holds up a hand at Chiara’s affronted expression— “we’re just talking. Because we’re friends.”

Chiara swallows, but her irritation comes out anyway. “Do I have to fucking shake you?”

“It’s _not—_ ” Anneliese rolls her eyes. “It’s nothing bad. I’m serious.”

“Married. _Married._ It’s called basic listening comprehension.”

“I’ll have you know,” Anneliese says defensively, “that’s my strong suit. And he’s just angry because he’s obsessed with me doing better. Julie is a part of it, but not like that.”

Chiara frowns. “Doing better?”

“It’s idiotic,” Anneliese says. And she does, indeed, make it sound like the most idiotic thing in the world. “He insists my self-worth is lacking, and I’m taunting myself with talking to Julie, and that I’m settling for some stupid one-sided thing forever. He’s been like this ever since I—”

She stops, glances up at Chiara, the usual delicate set of her eyes seeming conflicted and weak.

“Since?”

“Since…” Anneliese clears her throat. “Excuse me. Since I gave up some job opportunities. He’s always trying to get me to—”

“What, are you talking about being a musician?” Chiara interjects. The drop on Anneliese’s face is as clear of an answer as she’ll get.

“Yes,” she says eventually. “I suppose Daniel told you about that. Yes, my career as a violinist. I chose to leave for reasons that have nothing to do with my self-worth. But it was a choice, which is something I suppose he can’t understand, and I chose this. I chose my life. I chose…”

She trails off, blinking absentmindedly before clearing her throat again. “That past didn’t do me any good. So I let it go. He just doesn’t have anything else to do with himself, so he scorns me for it.”

Chiara leans forward, her thoughts buzzing. “Wait, are you projecting, or is he projecting? And what does Julie have to do with any of it?”

Anneliese laughs drily, crossing her legs. “I guess we both are. I’m not sure. I do think… well, I’m not sure. It’s just hard to let go of things.”

“Tell me about it,” Chiara mutters. _God, this is the most vague shit I’ve ever heard._

“I could let go of that past so easily,” Anneliese muses, seemingly just talking to herself at this point. “But with Julie, everything I felt, even though I don’t feel it much anymore— I don’t know. She just has that effect. I can’t seem to let any of it slip away.”

Chiara holds up a hand with a frown. “Aren’t you and Daniel, like…”

Anneliese presses her palms against her face, leaning forward, and her voice is muffled and mired with so much confusion it barely sounds like her voice at all. 

“I don’t know,” she says at last. “Yes. No. The thing is, he was right, really, when he said I was torturing myself talking to her, but I know he’s jealous too. I just know. And I care about him, I—”

Her voice breaks, her eyes drifting far-off. “I want to be with him. I do. It’s just difficult. It’s complicated. We’re too jealous of each other, of her, we know each other too well, I’m just not ready to— Christ, I’m sorry. This is…”

Chiara snorts. “Ridiculous. I can tell. Who the hell even is Julie, anyway?”

“I mean. She’s our friend?”

“No, what kind of deity is she for you guys to act like such fucking idiots?”

“See, that’s the question,” Anneliese says, her face rueful, still smiling lightly. An unquestionable fondness sneaks in with each word, growing until it’s towering over both of them. “She’s the biggest idiot out of all of us. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know why I still feel the way I do. She’s rowdy, and she pestered me for years, and she never stops talking and prodding everyone and drinking and laughing and having the time of her life. She’s always the life of the party. She’s ridiculous. My polar opposite.”

_She’s always the life of the party. She’s ridiculous._

_My polar opposite._ Chiara’s chest clenches at that, and she leans back on the counter— _yeah. I get that._

_That was me, too._

“I get it,” she says, after much deliberation on whether to say it or not, whether this is entirely too confessional. “I get it. It’s just different with that kind of airhead, especially when you’re an asshole.”

Anneliese actually laughs, and she’s light and joking in her scandal, softened. “Are you calling me that?”

“An asshole? Absolutely,” Chiara says, and she laughs too— and they just laugh together, lost in their own shit and their stupid little lives, trying not to think too hard. _At least for me. I don’t know about her. She’s probably enjoying this._

“What, who was your… airhead?” Anneliese says when it winds down, her expression lax.

“Nobody,” Chiara blurts, not even thinking, and it clearly shows.

 _That is legitimately one of the worst lies you’ve ever told._ Anneliese agrees, judging by the disbelief on her face, and Chiara scrambles for an actual answer.

“I mean.” She clears her throat, stares at the floor. “I don’t know. Just in general.”

“...In general,” Anneliese says. Plainly, she doesn’t buy it.

“Just someone from a long time ago,” Chiara says. And then, just as a little postscript, like she’s just going to sleep in for two more minutes, have one more sip, one more bite: “I messed up pretty fucking bad.”

Anneliese doesn’t say anything, just nods expectantly— one more minute. One more sip. One more word.

“I really. I really, uh, liked him,” Chiara finds herself saying, the words horrifying her, and the dam keeps crumbling away in a deluge of terror, “except. I don’t know. There was just something in the way. But he’s the only person I’ve ever really…”

_Oh, God, stop it. Stop it right now. She’s going to judge you, she’s already judging you. Stop. You can’t keep talking about this. You—_

Anneliese smiles, and it’s a real smile, gentle and discrete but real— and nods, almost _encouragingly._

_Since when was Anneliese capable of that?_

Chiara tries to shut her mouth, to roll her eyes and shudder like she would, to brush the whole thing off, and yet she keeps going, and Anneliese keeps smiling. “I tried so hard. I wanted nothing more than to— I can’t describe it. I prayed. I prayed so much. I’m not even a practicing Catholic in the slightest, but I prayed every night, please, God, let him be the exception, I never wanted something so badly in my life. He made me fucking religious. But I just couldn’t.”

Anneliese’s face shifts, concern shading over the smile. “You couldn’t…” 

_I couldn’t feel—_

_There was just—_

That dreaded, awful, cursed word, that sickening feeling creeping up her legs, around her ribs and squeezing, and she thinks about him. The way he laughed, white t-shirts in the morning, light glinting in his eyes. Loud footsteps, crazy smiles.

_Nothing._

And there’s a trembling, enormous pang of guilt that sears through her, a jolt that feels like it lasts a million years, and her throat starts to weld itself shut.

“Chiara,” Anneliese says.

“Chiara,” again, “Chiara, are you alright?”

“Fuck off,” Chiara manages to choke out. _I’m so ridiculous. I can’t believe myself. I don’t have an ounce of self-control, I don’t have a single fucking drop._ “I’m fine. This is nothing.”

“Chiara,” Anneliese says, and her voice is impossibly gentle, low, like she’s talking to a kindergartener rather than speaking to the president. “How about you go to your room. You don’t look too well.”

“Okay,” Chiara says, and her own voice is faint and tinny in her ears. She doesn’t know how to respond. She doesn’t know what else to say.

“Do you need help?”

“Fuck off,” she parrots, stumbling to her feet.

Anneliese’s face is blurry, indistinct in her vision, but it overwhelms her. She can’t even think, she can’t even hate herself right now—

“I’m going to bed,” she finally manages, and the rest of it is a blur.

* * *

When she wakes up, it’s dark outside— _I feel normal again, and my sleep schedule is irreparably fucked again. Consistency._

She keeps the thoughts from earlier in the afternoon shoved back as deep as they can go, like a pile of garbage in the corner of her thoughts, forever in the periphery. _I’m fine now. That’s what counts._

_I’m hungry, too— I just keep doing this. All I do is start shit, huh?_

She has a couple of messages from Feli and from Roberto through Feli. She responds to them as blandly as she can, and then she opens up her email and rereads the applications submitted so far, all four of them, sounding out each name and number and letter in her head, reading and rereading until it feels like they’re implanted in her brain.

 _This is important,_ she tells herself. _I can eat after I do this. I can eat after I finish betraying everyone. I can just—_

 _No, fuck this._ It’s too much. She shoves her phone deep into the mess of blankets and sheets smothering her and crawls out, slipping on her shoes and making her way downstairs. Heating up leftovers feels like too much effort, much less cooking up a whole meal, so she settles on eating a slice of plain bread and a few glasses of water.

_This is the saddest fucking meal I’ve had since I left Richmond. I can’t even bring myself to care._

Everything feels eerie, otherworldly. She goes out to the main room and sits on one of the couches in the dark for a while, staring out at the beach, the night sky blurring in her vision. It’s indescribably strange, darkened with the most impossible shade of brown-purple-blue-gray that she can’t place or name.

It’s beautiful, in an alien way. It’s disquieting. It’s paralyzing.

_Is this the sublime?_

_I feel…_

_Small. Alone. Trapped. Like I’m in a painting, frozen in the frame, light and shadow rendered meaningless. Like there’s no foreground, I’m just a part of it all._

An immeasurable amount of time goes by. Eventually, she pulls herself upright, her calves and feet wooden and numb— it just feels like the right time to get up. It feels like the right time to go back to bed. But minutes pass as she stands there, unmoving, still frozen, still numb, that waking sleep paralysis washing over her again.

Everything feels different. She heads to her room.

The hallway is cold and empty, but she abruptly notices that the room further down the hall from hers has the light on and the door slightly ajar. 

_That’s— that’s Isabel’s room._

_Is she awake? Did I just not notice it before?_

Chiara wants to go back to bed, for once. _But I can’t just leave the door open, who knows what kind of shit could happen— but I don’t want to intrude, I don’t want to be rude or creepy, I don’t, I don’t—_

_God, what’s wrong with me today? It’s like I can’t think in a straight line. It’s like I can’t think at all._

She creeps toward the door, and every ounce of her is screaming to just close it, and every muscle in her body moves closer and pulls her towards it, and she finds herself peering in.

The room is about the same as hers, cozily furnished and decorated with photographs and paintings. Isabel’s there— she’s in her bed, sleeping, with her phone faintly playing music and an open notebook on her chest, a pen lying on the floor. It’s like she’s a corpse, she’s so still. And somehow she looks as vibrant as she’s ever been— the room glows, and she glows with it. 

That gnawing, strained feeling comes back in full force now, and Chiara can’t move, but she can’t get closer, feeling both intensely predatory and intensely weak, feeling everything from today and from the last month cave in on her at the same time. 

It’s just too much. She thinks about him, and his crazy smile. And then she thinks about Isabel, that same fire in her face, flitting over her eyes bright and hot. She thinks about Isabel in the kitchen, Isabel driving, Isabel in front of her, peacefully sleeping, not knowing she’s being stared at. She thinks about the little things.

_I like your earrings. I appreciate you. Thank you._

God, she needs to stop. _Isabel’s just… a nice person. She’s just really fucking kind. And sunny, and optimistic, and she lets me be. And I’m—_

_I just don’t know what to do about that. I’m Chiara Vargas, certified piece of shit, literally doomed to keep doing this forever, and she’s… I can’t even be near her. I just can’t. I don’t know._

_Do I?_

Something crawls over her, sticky and cold and horrible, and she quickly flips off the light and shuts the door before she can stare for any longer.

_I’m so fucking weird. I can’t keep acting like this. I’m not going to stop acting like this, and I hate myself so much for it._

_I need to stop. I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop._

She crawls into bed. Then she presses her face into the pillow, holds it there until her lungs scream for air, until it’s impossible to have any more fucked up thoughts. She can’t believe she told Anneliese about him. She can’t believe she talked or thought about him at all. She can’t believe she went into Isabel’s room and stared at her and had a whole mental collapse and broke her fucking brain. She can’t believe she’s attracted to a woman.


	13. give and take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've looked at love from both sides now  
> From give and take and still somehow  
> It's love's illusions I recall  
> I really don't know love at all."  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["Both Sides Now"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pbn6a0AFfnM)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recent/current events have made it difficult to write, but I wrote this in a big flurry so I'm hoping I'm back on my grind! I'll probably update this weekend.
> 
> CWs for this chapter: more talking about narcissistic and abusive parents, though there's nothing graphic, and a good dose of internalized homophobia on top of it all.
> 
> side note, I saw a tweet about how gay people will start sharing all their trauma as soon as they're together (it was citing the ember island/beach episode of avatar as a prime example), and I would like to personally attest to that and also laugh at how much it applies to Chiara and the rest of the disaster gang. this is how you know, girl. get with the times.
> 
> anyways I really hope you like this one. please enjoy :)

The first thing she thinks when she wakes up the next morning:

 _I’m so glad it’s my day off._ And then— _God, this is going to be such a disaster._

She doesn’t even know what she thinks is going to be disastrous. Today? This week, this month? Julie’s wedding? Daniel and Anneliese?

Everything with Isabel, God forbid?

_What the hell is that supposed to mean. What “thing” even is there? My thing where I feel like I’m in physical pain whenever I think about her? My thing where I can’t think about her telling me about how she respects me or whatever the fuck without dying inside? Am I really even— is that seriously how I feel?_

_Attraction?_

Well, Chiara might be a piece of shit, but she’s not a complete fucking idiot. _That’s the one thing I have going for me._

It can’t be…

 _Real,_ though. Can it?

_It can’t be. My wires are just crossing. Julie’s harem disputes are messing me up, Anneliese’s sappiness is infecting me. Aren’t women supposed to have girl crushes, anyway? That’s a normal female thing, right, admiring other women, feeling intimidated by them? I’m calling it attraction, but it just. It doesn’t make sense._

_What the hell is the point anyway? It’s not like it has any purpose. It’s not like she’d ever feel anything. Hell, it’s not like I actually feel anything._

_And I can’t even… I’ve never even been attracted to women in the first place. I’ve only ever been with guys._ He _was a guy. It doesn’t make sense. That’s right. I was just sleepy and stupid yesterday. It can’t._

An irritating voice in her head that sounds exactly like Daniel coughs. _Bisexuality exists,_ he helpfully supplies.

_And that’s definitely not me. A million percent._

_It’s me,_ says inner-Daniel.

Chiara’s had enough of it all, and she crawls out of bed, dizzy and dehydrated. Getting in the shower without slipping and cracking her head open is a task. The water is scalding against her back— she stands there for a lot longer than she should, feeling it worm into the knots in her neck, plastering her hair to the sides of her face, dripping off her in little rivulets.

It can’t be real. It can’t be.

When she finally gets out, it’s been forty minutes and she’s just a little less sore and irritated, a little more pink and healthy-looking. She brushes her teeth, combs her hair, and she feels alright— she feels clean.

It’s not exactly a feeling she’s had recently. Mostly, it’s just been numbness. But this feels good. She feels good. So she puts on nicer clothes, picks out jewelry, even spritzes on a little perfume, all to crawl back into bed and stare at her phone, curling up under too many blankets and breathing slow. It’s the most comfort she’s felt in a while. The sky outside is gray, swelling with low-hanging clouds, and she doesn’t mind it for once. It just makes being in her blanket hole feel even better.

Chiara’s a little less than halfway through a video of someone sharpening knives when there’s a light knock on her door, a knock that reminds her so much of Feli her first instinct is to yell _I’m fine go away._

But the voice that calls her name isn’t Feli—

It’s Isabel’s, of course. Apparently God hates her.

“Chiara?” Isabel says again. “Hey, are you up?”

 _No,_ she thinks, _no, I’m not, I’m just waiting this out, leave me alone,_ but her traitorous mouth has to open itself and call back.

“What is it?”

“Oh, I just wanted to check on you— can I come in?”

 _Shit. Shit, shit, shit._ Chiara wants so badly to say no, she wants to crawl back into her nest and die, but it’s all doused by the thought of Isabel standing outside her door. Maybe she actually wants to talk to me. Maybe she wants to see me. _God, she’s going to be in my room, and she’s going to see the place where I’ve been sleeping._

_But I’ll see her._

So Chiara swallows it all down, stutters something out. “Um, I’m. One second. I have to, uh, finish getting dressed.”

“It’s all good! Take your time,” Isabel responds, her voice light.

 _Fuck this._ Chiara scrambles out of her bed, sloppily making it and tossing the shirt on the floor in the closet, throwing herself into the desk chair before clearing her throat.

“Um, you can come in,” she says, sticking her fists into her pockets as the door swings open.

Isabel pokes her head in, an easy smile on her face, her hair down and falling in waves. She looks entirely too good for Chiara’s rat cave.

“Hey!” she says, and now the frantic squirm in Chiara’s chest suddenly feels acutely less like social anxiety and more like something else entirely, and responding with a steady voice is a lot harder than it should be.

“Yes?” she says.

Isabel comes in and closes the door, a paper bag in her hand. “Just checking in! A guest gave us some oranges— I think they might just be the best oranges I’ve ever had, they’re so sweet and wonderful, I just can’t bring myself to do anything else with them— anyways! I wanted to share some before the others ate them all.”

“Oh,” Chiara says, because _she had a thought about me, and she brought me food._ “Um. Thanks.”

“No problem!” Isabel grins incandescently, settling down on the bed and taking out an orange. “Sleep well?”

_Other than the crippling panic? Fine._

_God, this fucking small talk. I can’t do it._ “Uh, yeah, it was fine.”

“Oh, good,” Isabel says, smiling down at the orange she’s peeling. “I slept really, really well last night— I just passed out completely, which usually isn’t how it goes, but I feel great.”

“…Yeah.” _Oh, and I was watching you sleep. As one does._

Chiara can’t help the flood of internal cringe that fills her at the thought. _Jesus, I can’t even have a girl crush normally. And_ Christ, _do I hate the word girl crush. It sounds stupid._

_I’m so stupid. Shut up and listen to her._

Isabel splits the orange, handing Chiara a half and dropping the peel into the paper bag. It does, indeed, look like a delicious orange, and Chiara tears off a segment and takes a bite to confirm. That first bite demonstrates it’s also the best orange she’s ever had: full, succulent, and wonderful as she chews, fragrant and bursting with sugar-sweetness. Each bite she takes is like eating a juicy piece of watermelon, almost— as if she’s getting full, as if she’s gulping up gallons of water.

“Aren’t they good?” Isabel says with a grin, peeling a segment off her own piece.

“Yeah,” Chiara admits. “Yeah, they’re great. Thank you.”

Isabel looks incomparably pleased at that. “You’re welcome!” she says, tilting her head slightly as she smiles, and her necklace catches the light for a brief second— Chiara can’t help feeling like it’s the most gorgeous necklace she’s ever seen in her life.

“I…” She swallows, finally expels those words before she can think too much harder. “I like your necklace.”

Then, hastily tacked on, “It’s really beautiful.”

Isabel’s eyes are wide— _did I sound too sappy? Did I say something weird?—_ and then she smiles, more radiant than ever.

“Wow, thank you, I appreciate it!” she says. “I bought it as a gift for myself a long time ago. I’m glad you— well, I don’t know why I wear it, really, but I guess I have a reason now.”

Chiara’s heart stops, and she blurts it out despite herself. “Are you saying I’m—”

Isabel laughs, a little bit stilted. “Is that too much? I mean, it was pretty expensive, it’s a miracle I haven’t damaged it yet. But.”

And it really clicks in Chiara’s head that _yes, she just said she’d wear it for me._

_What the fuck._

“Why…” Chiara starts, biting her cheek. “Um, why’d you buy it, anyway?”

Isabel smiles down at her lap. “Let’s see, I bought it… the first week? I think? After I moved out of my parents’ house. I moved in with a girlfriend. And I wanted to, uh, celebrate that, you know what I mean. Moving out. Being out.”

She chuckles, though it sounds startlingly hesitant, and pulls another orange out of the bag. “I was really happy. I felt like a real adult, I was working and living with her, it was all good. So.”

“Oh,” Chiara says. “That’s nice.”

_Girlfriend. Being out. That’s right, she’s— yeah._

“Yeah, it was,” Isabel says, and she gives Chiara another piece of orange with that small smile. “It’s always nice to do things for yourself. I don’t think I’ve ever felt better about spending money, and I was so proud of myself for saving it all up…”

She trails off, staring at nothing in particular with the ghost of that smile on her face, her lips slightly parted.

Chiara takes a bite of orange and crosses her legs, leaning back into the chair. “And then?”

Isabel shrugs, laughing shortly. “Actually, I had to move back in after things fell apart, which—” She grimaces, and Chiara finds herself mirroring the same expression, feeling that twinge of hurt reflecting across into her too.

_Imagine having to move back in. I’d kill myself, and I’d actually succeed._

Isabel drops another peel into the bag. “Well, I was at home for a while. Then I started working here. So I guess I’m back to being independent, huh?”

“Yeah,” Chiara says. And then her mouth slips, and she says, “Yeah, I understand. I couldn’t have been happier when I moved out.”

Isabel grins, popping the rest of her orange in her mouth. “Right? Nothing can feel better than all that anxiety, all that fear and pressure just. Vanishing.”

“Yeah, I…” Chiara leans back further and stares at the ceiling. “I didn’t even bother with school. I just moved immediately to New York and lived with five other people in a shitty apartment and probably had the worst fucking time ever, but it was exactly what I needed. If that makes sense.”

“Oh, of course,” Isabel says, a smile in her voice. “No, I get that one hundred percent. I didn’t know you lived in New York, though?”

“That was… before I moved to Richmond with Feli, yeah.”

“That’s so cool! I’ve never been to the East Coast, how was it?”

Chiara shrugs. “I mean, it was fine. Crowded. Really fucking dirty. We had roaches. I lived in Queens, by the way, which was absolutely a nightmare. Zero glamor. But it was fine.”

She bites her cheek harder, blinks heavy, and says the rest of it before she can think too hard. 

_That’s just the pattern for today, huh?_

“Honestly, I did a lot of drugs. I drank way too much. That’s what most of my memories of New York are, to be honest, and… it was just stupid. Shitty. It was a stupid, shitty time, and I really fucking hate it. But I guess it’s over.”

A beat of silence that’s a little too long, a moment where Chiara feels her entire life flashing before her eyes thanks to her big mouth, and she looks down to see Isabel looking at her with…

Not pity. Not secondhand embarrassment, not sadness, not disgust.

It’s just empathy. And she nods and says, “That kind of thing is really hard to deal with. I get you. And being somewhere new, having way too much independence, all that. I hear that.”

Chiara can’t help shivering at those words, hitting her like a freezing riptide and sweeping out her feet. _When has someone ever said that to me? When’s the last time someone has said they “hear that” to me—_

_God, she needs to stop talking to me like this, acting like this, before my brain breaks even more._

“But you’re, uh…” Isabel waves an awkward hand. “Not doing that now? I hope?”

“No!” Chiara exclaims, probably a little too loudly, too frantic for approval. “I— sorry. This is embarrassing, I—”

Isabel shakes her head vehemently. “No, don’t worry about it. I’m just glad you’re doing better, you know? It’s really, really hard. I get it. You’re fine.”

_I just—_

_Don’t cry. Do not fucking cry right now. This is the stupidest shit you could possibly cry about. Don’t do it. Don’t think about it. Don’t say anything else about it. Don’t make a fool of yourself in front of her, you don’t say stupid shit in front of the person you like, don’t do that._

“I,” she says, as if she hasn’t already said enough, “I was just so stupid.”

Isabel reaches forward, leaning closer, as if she’s about to put a hand on Chiara’s knee, and it sends the worst shudder yet through Chiara, making her jump back in her chair.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” Isabel says, her voice soft and gentle. “I just— you’re not stupid, at all.”

_No, don’t be sorry. I’m the biggest fucking idiot on the planet._

“I’m seriously,” Chiara starts, her voice already trembling. “I just mean. I was fucking awful. A stupid, selfish piece of shit. It was okay for everyone to see me acting like that, being a complete asshole, getting my stomach pumped, literally dying in the street— and God forbid they see me get sober, God forbid anyone see me act decent for once. I was ashamed of _not having a fucking addiction,_ I was so damn embarrassed I had to go and move in with my brother. That’s fucked. I had a drink the other day and I think I was actually going to end it all, and I’m still… just as weak.”

And Isabel—

Actually does lean forward all the way this time, resting a warm hand on Chiara’s leg, her eyes open and clear.

“I’m not judging you,” she says, indescribably soft. “I’m not. You’re not weak. I’m glad you’re here and doing better. Thanks for telling me.”

Chiara is— paralyzed, silent, both at those words and the warmth of Isabel’s palm on her knee, that brightness glimmering in her eyes, a swelling kind of shame at everything she’s just said clamping down on her chest.

“No, I shouldn’t have said that,” Chiara mumbles, her throat hoarse. _I can’t stop fucking staring at her._ “That was entirely too much. Completely.”

Isabel shakes her head, and the pressure on Chiara’s knee increases, the space between them closing.

“Chiara, I mean it. You sounded like you needed to talk about it. And we all make mistakes and do things we’re not proud of, we all fail— it doesn’t define you.”

“Well, I can’t _stop_ failing.”

Isabel looks directly into her eyes then, like she’s staring straight through every thought and feeling into the core of it all, and Chiara has never felt more perceived in her life. It’s horrifying. It feels like everything on the outside is burning to ashes, like Isabel’s reaching in and grabbing those emotions, holding them tight when Chiara herself can’t even bear to acknowledge them.

“You’re alright now,” Isabel says.

There’s so much weight in those three words— they’re impossibly heavy, they’re low and quiet, they’re agonizing to hear, and so Chiara swallows it all down and wipes it from her brain.

_This is enough. Not now. Not ever. You’ve done enough damage already._

“Okay,” she says, and closes off her thoughts, seals her mouth shut for good, and she doesn’t think she can bear any more of this.

“Really,” Isabel says. “I mean it. No matter what— change is real. Forgiveness is real. I can testify to that myself.”

“Forgiveness,” Chiara repeats faintly.

Isabel leans back, letting go of Chiara’s knee, and that evaporating warmth might just be the saddest thing Chiara’s felt in a while. _That’s just called being emotionally barren, God, I’m so dramatic. I’m just touch deprived. I’m just being irritating._

Isabel sighs, sinking back all the way on the bed and staring at the ceiling, oddly reminiscent of that first night they talked in Roberto’s room.

“Yeah,” she says. “Forgiveness. I don’t know how I even did it. I have no clue why, or how, or what, I just… did. I don’t believe forgiveness is really necessary, honestly, but it just happened to me. I forgave her for everything. You just never know, really. It comes from the strangest places.”

“Who?” Chiara says.

“Another ex of mine.” Isabel stretches her arms, and Chiara can see muscle shifting under skin, something that makes her feel a little sick. 

“Was she…” Chiara fumbles for words and finds herself gripping her knee. “What, was she worth forgiving? Or?”

“Honestly? I don’t know.”

Then, silence, and Isabel breathes deeply before clearing her throat.

“Actually, she cheated on me,” she says. “A lot. With my other ex— I don’t even know, it was just a whole convoluted mess, since there’s about five other lesbians here and we all knew each other— it was just the last straw for me. On top of my parents, my job, all of that. I mean, the rest was fine, and I could handle my parents, I just couldn’t handle… that.”

And Chiara feels sick, really fucking sick, for so many reasons, really. The old wounds in Isabel’s voice, the knowledge of what happened, that defeat in her words, and scribbled all over the whole thing is nothing less than _God, she’s really going to hate me now. She’s going to hate me. She’s never going to look at me again. I deserve all of it. She looks like she fell apart completely, she looks like she’s barely glued together, she’s—_

“But that’s really all fine now,” Isabel says, and she sits up to glance at Chiara. “Honestly, I was in pain, but I just… I can’t bring myself to endure that pain anymore. I stopped trying to find meaning in it.”

_I understand. I know exactly what you mean. I know exactly how that feels._

“Forgiveness,” Chiara repeats for what seems like the millionth time. Isabel just smiles faintly.

“Yeah,” she says. “Forgiveness, I guess.”

And Chiara twists and knots her hands together in her lap, relishing in the twinge every time she pinches herself too hard, knowing she’s really the one falling apart, barely glued together, lost in her own head. Devoid of forgiveness. So full of it she’s projecting it onto everyone around her. She knows it, and it feels like she’s getting steamrolled by the enormity of it all, staring straight into the face of _I need to change. I need to keep going._

_I need to get better._

“I need to get better,” she says, the words slipping out. And again, “I really need to get better.”

Isabel smiles soft, sad.

“Don’t we all,” she says, and they sit there for a while, finishing off a bag of oranges and letting each other be.

* * *

Later, as early afternoon starts to set in, Chiara feels like she should do something. And she doesn’t know why, but she feels it. So she snags the van keys and stands outside staring at it for a long time, each action pure instinct and empty of all thoughts, the ground beneath her and the sea to her side. Then she maneuvers herself into the car, and she sticks the key in the ignition and puts her hands on the wheel.

_What if I just… drove away? What if I drove into a tree? Into the ocean?_

She doesn’t do any of that. She shoves every coherent thought back into that corner of her head that’s really starting to ache, and she starts the engine, and she drives out of the parking lot and down the highway and into the hospital’s parking lot.

Checking in isn’t too hard. Making her way up to Roberto’s room is a little worse. Getting the door open and walking in is borderline impossible.

 _I can’t do this,_ she thinks. 

_I don’t know what else to do._

“Feliciano?” Roberto says when she opens the door, his voice stretched thin, though a smile breaks open on his face when he sees her. “Oh, Chiara! It’s good to see you, truly.”

“Where’s Feli?” she asks.

“Oh, he usually doesn’t come on Thursdays,” he says, smiling and gesturing to one of the chairs by his bed. _Oh, thank God. I would have left if he was going to show up on me._ “Sit! Sit, here, sit down.”

“It’s fine,” Chiara immediately says. But she gulps and takes a seat anyway, crossing her legs and avoiding eye contact or any part of Roberto entering her vision as much as possible.

“It’s good to see you, really,” Roberto says, and his voice is warm. “Everything alright?”

“Yes,” Chiara says. “No. I don’t know. Everything is…”

Roberto doesn’t say anything, just hums in agreement, and she feels her headache intensify.

“I,” she starts, and she asks the same question she’d asked Feli last time.

“Do you think I’ve failed forever?”

A quick glance at Roberto’s face shows an emotion she’s never seen on him, a feeling she can’t really grasp, and he sighs deeply.

“I think,” he says, “I failed _you._ In every aspect of the word.”

She realizes: it’s sadness. Shame. Uncomfortably close to her own self, a shame that makes her writhe inside, something horrible and buried and aching. Roberto’s face doesn’t change. He clears his throat, though it sounds more like a death rattle. The sound feels like it’s cutting into her— and she’s never felt much for him, not really, but there’s a sudden twinge of hurt that threatens to break her in two.

“Your mother,” he says, sighing. “I don’t know what happened with her. We did our best, but—”

“She’s not my mother,” Chiara interjects, though it feels more like beating a long-dead horse, stubborn and numbing. Roberto just nods.

“My daughter, then,” he says, and his face is wrinkled and far-off. “I shouldn’t have… let you two stay in that house. I still think about that, all the time, really. The moments I saw. The things I excused, letting my exhaustion take precedent over your well-being.”

Chiara frowns, leaning back. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Roberto chuckles shortly. “Let an old man air his regrets, will you?”

“That’s—”

For once, she can’t really find a retort in there. It just sounds sad, beaten down, heavy. 

_I’d feel like that too, if that hag was my daughter. If I ended up raising a witch._

“I made the wrong choice,” Roberto continues. “It’s a shame. I can’t help but think of all the things that could have been prevented, all of the baggage you two wouldn’t have to be saddled with, so many moments that could have dissipated into nothing. And I wanted to let you know, I wanted to tell you I know that. Before I left.”

“You’re…” Chiara says, and she clenches her teeth. “You sound ridiculous. Do you think _I_ don’t feel guilty for shit?”

His mouth curls into a smile, fond and light. “Chiara, what on earth could you feel guilty about?”

She snorts and kicks her legs up onto the empty chair next to her. “What, I shouldn’t feel guilty about being the golden child and having everything scapegoated onto Feli? I shouldn’t feel guilty that I’ve caused all his suffering and I’m still contributing to it, really, I should feel fine about that?”

“You didn’t force your parents into anything,” Roberto says.

Chiara shrugs. “I let them do it, didn’t I?”

And she sounds nonchalant, and she feels nonchalant, but some part of her buried under everything else is screaming for air—it’s true. She did. And that tiny part feels like a kid again, terrified, lost, unsure, unable to understand.

“Chiara, Chiara,” Roberto laments, and his voice is ragged. “Really, what could you have done?”

“Stood up for him,” she scoffs. “I don’t know, said something, anything—”

“You know as well as I do how poorly that would fare,” he says.

And he’s right, really, hasn’t she had this thought a million times? About her parents, that smiling armor they wear, the empty clang of their empty heads, the feelings they don’t have, the behaviors they passed on. He’s right. It’s not a very satisfying thought.

“Well, what would _you_ have done?” she demands.

He smiles ruefully, running a hand through his hair as if he still has a full head of it. “Taken custody? Called someone, taken real action… I’ve thought about this as long as you’ve been alive. And I haven’t done anything.”

“They would have lied their way out of it and made it worse for us.”

“Maybe so. I’ll never know.”

“Inaction always turns out better than interaction, anyway,” Chiara mutters. Maybe it does. God knows she’s only ever dug herself deeper with the latter.

Roberto frowns, leaning forward a little. “And who told you that?”

She snorts. “Myself? My life?”

“What, because…”

“Didn’t even get looked at when I kept quiet, got the shit knocked out of me the moment I opened my mouth,” she says, and that little buried self cries out louder. “Felt fine when I kept to myself, then I got absolutely miserable when I started being around people. It was alright when I stuck with it all, and the moment I stepped out of line—”

“What,” Roberto says, his voice seemingly fortified, almost accusing. “What happened with you?”

Chiara actually laughs at that, and she doesn’t know why she’s laughing. It seems excessive, melodramatic, even. There’s nothing to laugh about. But she laughs anyway, because that’s all she feels like doing.

“Doesn’t Feli give you every detail about my life?” she says.

Roberto frowns, rubbing his chin absentmindedly. “Feliciano respects you. You know that?”

“Not relevant. He tells you _everything,_ doesn’t he?”

“He…” Roberto sighs. “I don’t know what you’re trying to get at, Chiara. But yes, he talked to me often. I don’t think he said _everything._ I certainly don’t know everything.”

“What, did you hear about me overdosing?” she demands.

He shoots her a look, one that makes it clear just how questionable he finds this train of thought. “Yes, I heard about it. I’d imagine it’d be hard to not hear about.”

“Do you know _anything?_ About the hole I fell in? All the shit I ended up doing? Any of it? How much I destroyed my own life, how fucking idiotic I became? All the problems I created for myself?”

He looks up at her, an eyebrow raised, his voice quiet. “Well, if you’d like to speak, you’re more than welcome to. If you’d like me to know _anything."_

It’s only for a flicker of a moment, but he sounds like the old Roberto, that brazen old man making toasts and taking photos— like the kind of person Chiara would imagine running the Quill, the kind of person who would take in Isabel. He looks smoothed-out. He looks like the opposite of dead, for the first time since she’s seen him.

“I don’t _want_ you to hear,” Chiara says. “I just—”

He doesn’t retain that sternness from before, just nods understandingly. “Your current problem— is it an issue going on right now?”

“Yeah. No. I mean, no.”

Another eyebrow raise. _It’s like Anneliese picked up how to be as infuriating as possible from him. Amazing._

She doesn’t even know what she wants to say. She doesn’t know why she wants him to hear.

“I just…”

“What, is it a girl?”

Chiara opens her mouth, and she stares at him, closes her mouth, not breathing and not daring to make a single sound. Roberto still looks perfectly at ease, his expression neutral against her shock.

“What on earth,” she finally says, “are you saying.”

It’s Roberto’s turn to laugh, that raucousness shadowing his voice. “I know you, Chiara. I’ve known you since the day you were born. I’m just asking.”

“That’s completely ridiculous,” she says, although her face is already starting to burn, and all she can think about is the time Feli came out to Roberto and the other time Isabel came out to her and all the talk about Roberto and his inclination for being accepting, or whatever other bullshit, and it makes her both furious and frustrated. Meanwhile, he just looks amused at this point— _I hate this so much. I don’t want to have this discussion._ Swallowing down the petulant indignity threatening to burst out of her feels impossible.

“You’re being insane,” she finally says. “And it’s not about that kind of stuff, at all. I already said it was a long time ago.”

Roberto shrugs. “Forgive and forget. That’s how things go.”

_Forgiveness. Forgive and forget._

_I don’t think so,_ she wants to say, _because there’s a girl and I can’t keep myself together for some godforsaken reason, and I’m terrified of her, and she’s entirely not on the same plane of existence. She’s open, and she brings me things. She says she respects me. She told me she understood me. She’s entirely too much for me to handle, and she’s struggled so much in her life, and her ex cheating on her was somehow worse for her than eighteen years of shitty parenting— so how am I supposed to handle that? How can I say anything when I fucked up the only good relationship I ever had on a monumental scale? How do I even exist with her when I myself am a lying, cheating, crazy piece of shit? How?_

Chiara stands up. “I’m drained,” she says. “I’m going.”

Roberto smiles thinly, though it’s not malicious, just reflecting that same exhaustion she feels right back at her.

“Alright,” he says. “You drive safe, you hear?”

“Sure,” she says.

“You’d better.”

“I will.”

“Thanks for visiting me,” he says, and he smiles bigger.

“I…” 

_Thanks for giving me a chance to think about all of this messed up shit, I guess. God._

“Okay,” she says.

Roberto holds up a hand in farewell. She doesn’t bother waving back, just gathers her things and leaves, making her way back to the van in the parking lot.

_I don’t know why I did that. I don’t know why I came here._

And sitting there, a sense of realization keeps coming. _That’s the first time I’ve thought about all of that in full in a long, long time. Isn’t it crazy how deep repression can go? How messed up do you have to be to do that— to wipe your memory clean, to scrub it all off? To create your own pain, to maximize on it, to ruin all the good things you have. To twist up your entire life. Ridiculous._

_Isabel isn’t even a good thing I have, she’s just a good thing. And by God, I hope she stays that way._


	14. edifying fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I feel your legs under the table  
> Leaning into mine  
> I feel renewed; I feel disabled  
> By these bonfires in my spine."  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["Come In From The Cold"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pOfJ7S9f2LM)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahh leaving an important reminder for myself to take breaks and give myself space to write. as an american I've been very swamped in recent events lately and hopefully I will be able to keep writing and updating. self care is important. stay safe if you're in the streets <3
> 
> this was a very gratifying chapter to write lmao, I hope you like it too! we get some happy content at long last!!! let it be known I hc Isabel as having the best and most comprehensive gaydar ever. also come in from the cold is such a good listen I highly recommend, the tone is just perfect, and I've gone through and embedded yt links in the summaries so hopefully yall can give it a listen.
> 
> anyways no CWs and please enjoy :)

The most annoying part of sifting for a replacement has to be actually interacting with people, but it’s really the fourth phone interview with a candidate that’s the last straw for Chiara. The first two were bland and mostly gave an impression of not having a single fucking clue what they were doing, and Chiara hates a lot of things, but she _really_ can’t stand incompetence. That’s out of the question. The third one was moderately irritating, but he sounded like he was going to keel over and die any minute. So that was a pass. But this fourth person—

“I really don’t have time for these procedures,” he says.

 _Is he talking about the interview? The thing I need to do to make sure I don’t hire complete fucking idiots like this one?_ She clears her throat. “Excuse me, sir?”

_It’s like God took every irritating, nasty, horrible thing about men and decided to cram it all into one man. One singular man._

“It’s clear you’re very inexperienced,” he says. “No need to worry yourself, just send me the details and I’ll have my flight booked.”

_This is just… beyond inappropriate. This is beyond everything. I haven’t said more than the normal fucking interview questions. I hate this, I hate him, I hate narcissists, I hate—_

“I’m your potential employer, _sir,_ ” she says, trying not to spit the words, trying to level her voice and stay frosty. “And I don’t think it’s appropriate to continue this interview. Thank you for your time.”

The man huffs. “Put your manager on the line.”

“I am the manager. Have a good day, sir.”

“Excuse me, my credentials—”

Chiara hangs up the phone and slumps back in her chair with a heavy sigh. Because really, _I thought he’d be halfway decent— he really does have good credentials. I wouldn’t be shocked if he was a fucking nightmare to work with, but you can’t spend twenty years as an innkeeper without guests at least tolerating you._

_God. So fucking irritating. I hate boomers. I hate narcissists. If I was just a secretary, if I didn’t have the leverage of being the actual employer, I’d quit on the spot._

“What a fucking bastard,” she says out loud, maybe a little too loudly, because someone taps on the door a minute later.

“Yes?”

“Chiara,” Daniel’s voice says. “Everything okay? Can I come in?”

_No, I’m fucking working. I’m finding a replacement. I’m running away from all my problems, being a coward, blah blah blah._

“What do you want,” she says instead.

Daniel nervously chuckles and seems to take it as a cue to enter, seeing as he immediately opens the door and steps in, settling on the bed like it’s _his_ room.

“I heard you yelling from my room,” he says. “You good?”

Chiara snorts, turning her chair completely to face him and leaning back against the desk. “I’m better than fine. I just hate people.”

He laughs, crossing his legs. “What is it this time? The auditor again?”

She rolls her eyes. “Fuck him. No, just a candidate.”

“Oh, you mean—” Daniel furrows his eyebrows. “You mean you’re still trying to hire a replacement?”

“Of course,” she snorts. _And what about it?_

He looks affronted. “Are you seriously— shouldn’t you be worrying about the wedding? There’s only a few weeks before they show up, a month before the actual ceremony, and you’re trying to hire and train a new person?”

Chiara scoffs, rolls her eyes again. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s none of your damn business, and I can multitask. Wouldn’t be bad to have an extra pair of hands around then anyway.”

“You…” Daniel says, and his expression is pinched, confusion and frustration all over his face. “Why don’t you want the others to know, anyway? They’re going to find out when a random person shows up and you just _disappear._ ”

“What, you think they wouldn’t bother me nonstop about it, the way you are right now?” she deadpans.

“For a good reason.”

“Well, it’s irritating,” she says.

“You,” Daniel says, jabbing a finger in her direction, “are being equally irritating. You know that?”

 _If you don’t…_ She sinks deeper into the chair and glares at him with crossed arms. He doesn’t say anything else, just raises his eyebrows with a _what can you do about it_ kind of gesture, and they sit there in that glowering silence for a while.

“You know,” Daniel finally says, “I meant what I said before. The last two months have been good. It’s been alright. You’re great with the guests nowadays, and you haven’t even gotten fired yet.”

He says the last part with an impudent grin, his voice so lighthearted Chiara can’t feel too angry about it.

“Whatever,” she says, deadpan. Some tiny part of her smiles back on the inside. She feels silly, and he’s right. Maybe it’s that crushing sense of obligation towards Roberto, or spite for the replacements she’s sifting through, or something else entirely. Whatever it is, she can’t help putting in entirely too many hours every day, sleeping a full eight hours a night, eating three whole meals, cleaning up someone’s vomit in the middle of the night with Anneliese and plating dishes for Isabel— _it’s really so…_

_And I visited Roberto more than one time. He’s right, I haven’t even gotten fired yet._

_It’s so weird. I can’t say I like it._

“That aside, how’s the rest of the wedding prep going?” Daniel asks.

She shrugs, shifts in her chair. “It’s fine. Isabel and I have to go over the catering later.”

“I’m still surprised at how small the reception is, and how they’re actually hosting it here,” he muses, frowning off into the distance. “I’d expect a lot more from Julie. She’s not exactly a loner, I mean. I’d think she’d have a million friends to invite, you know?”

Chiara huffs. “People like that never have real friends. Don’t you know that?”

Daniel scrunches up his face, glancing back at her. “What?”

She just shrugs again, kicking her feet up, keeps her voice flat.

“Yeah. I knew someone who—” And for the briefest moment, that familiar feeling comes rushing back, and she has to swallow down a few deep breaths— “He was obsessed, and I mean _obsessed,_ with going over the people he would expect to come to his funeral. He had to think about it every day, he would ask me every day. And every single time…”

_There wouldn’t be a single person there, would there?_

She can hear it so clear in his voice, and she parrots it back dryly to Daniel, no matter how clenched up her chest feels.

_Chiara, you have to tell me the truth. You have to tell me. Who would come?_

“And he was…?” Daniel starts, an unreadable expression on his face, resting his chin in his palm.

Chiara stares at her feet. _Exuberant. In his own world. Confident._ “The liveliest son of a bitch I’ve ever met. Honestly, at first I couldn’t think of people who _wouldn’t_ come, but the more he asked me, the more I realized… I don’t know. That’s really depressing.”

 _And I asked myself the same thing every single day I was with him,_ is what she wants to say, what she’s thinking, but she doesn’t think it’s worth forcing out. Daniel nods.

“No, I understand what you’re saying,” he says, his voice faint and far-off.

“I mean, I don’t—” Chiara waves her hand vaguely in his direction, because his eyes make her feel impossibly guilty all of a sudden. “It might just be projection with Julie, I don’t know. I don’t know her. She probably just wants to spend time with you guys and other family, since you’re her old friends, or to be able to stay at the Quill. I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” Daniel says with that same faint voice. “I hope so. I hope it’s a good time for her.”

Now it’s her turn to lighten the mood and tease him back. “Thought you didn’t want this whole wedding to happen, huh?”

He thankfully takes the bait, laughing harshly and shoving at the chair with a well-placed foot. “Shut _up._ I’m allowed to have more than one emotion about something.”

“I will _never_ understand you guys and your fucked up dynamic.”

“Good!” Daniel rolls his eyes with a grin. “You don’t have to.”

“Fucking ridiculous,” Chiara grouses.

He shrugs, crossing his legs and leaning back. “I don’t get your deal. It’s normal to me.”

“I was there when you guys had that big fight. That’s not exactly _normal,_ ” she says.

He grimaces. “Yeah, well. I just… care.”

She snorts right back at him. “Yeah, well. Anneliese didn’t seem to like that very much.”

“Look, Anna is just so—” Daniel closes his eyes. “She has so many opportunities that are in arm’s reach. She could do anything she wanted to. You can’t say that about most people. And I feel guilty, I feel like I’m chaining her here, I feel like I’m baiting her with this concept of us being together that I can’t possibly deliver on or be ready for. It’s so much. I just care.”

_Are you fucking kidding me?_

“Are you listening to yourself? Are you guys even listening to each other?”

Daniel opens his eyes, staring at her, befuddled and blank. “What?”

“Oh my god,” Chiara says, and she rolls her eyes so hard it hurts. “She isn’t ready for shit either. She chose to be here because she _wants_ it, hell, she probably cares about you even more. I don’t know what kind of dumbass astral projection you’re doing, but I had one single conversation with her and somehow got more out of it that you guys’ twenty-odd years of friendship. What the fuck. Seriously, reevaluate.”

Daniel continues to stare and blink like he’s been blinded. Chiara just sits there and stares right back.

“You,” he finally says. “You… what?”

“Oh, for God’s sake. To hell with this,” she says, and she stands up and beckons at him so furiously he stumbles to his feet like she’s pulled him.

“Come on. Get out. Go bother Anneliese.”

Daniel whips around but she’s already shoved him out of the room, closing the door on his astonishment and thudding back down in her seat.

_They’re so fucking stupid. Watch nothing change for the next year, minimum._

In the privacy of her solitude, she relaxes the tension clamping down on her by the tiniest amount, and she lets herself smile.

_They’re so stupid._

* * *

It’s late in the afternoon when Chiara’s printed out all the details for the menu and the reception, the full spreadsheet of ingredients and portions and batches, and she’s even noted every detail in every email Anneliese sent— really, the only thing left to do is to go out to the kitchen and actually speak to Isabel.

_What are we going to talk about, anyway? Why did she ask me to have this full meeting, does she really need all the details that badly—_

_God, I’m really just as idiotic as Daniel._

So she forces herself out of her chair, drags herself out with her sheaf of papers and notes and legal pads, and makes her way into the kitchen. The main room is empty, and Chiara thanks her lucky stars she doesn’t have to fumble through a social interaction when she’s about to implode with nerves over something incomparably stupid. She barely composes herself enough to get into the kitchen.

Sure enough, Isabel’s hovering over a pan on the stove, the whole kitchen filled with the smell of something mouthwatering and savory. She’s humming to the same trap music blasting on her phone, her necklace glints the same way as she moves— she looks happy.

“Hey,” Chiara mutters, lingering awkwardly by the door. Isabel twists around, and the easy contentment on her face is too warm, melting and soft.

“Oh, hey!” she says. “Nobody’s staying for dinner tonight, so I thought I’d make us something.”

_Us. Oh my God, us, I’m going to die. I hate this._

“Uh, even Daniel and Anneliese?” Chiara manages to stammer.

Isabel smiles, though it looks more like a smirk. “I think they’re, ah, having their own moment. They left the Quill an hour ago.”

“I have,” Chiara says, “absolutely no clue what that means.”

Isabel turns back to her pan of sizzling chicken thighs. “Don’t worry about it,” she tosses back, her voice light and smiling still. “It’s a good thing.”

_Dear God. I sure fucking hope so._

“So, uh,” Chiara says, taking a tentative seat at one of the stools at the table in the back. “What are you making?”

Isabel shakes in a bowl of what looks like saffron and paprika, tossing in a scoop of something Chiara can’t quite make out.

“Oh, this is paella,” Isabel says, stirring quickly and with a kind of finesse that feels more intense than it should be, and shaking in a couple pinches of salt as she does so. “Is that okay?”

“Of course— uh, yeah,” Chiara says.

Isabel tips in a saucepan of broth, giving it another good stir before turning to Chiara with a smile on her face.

“Great! I’m glad,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear with a chuckle. “Honestly, paella is the one thing I feel I’m actually good at, so I hope it turns out alright.”

Chiara scoffs, lets herself melt back just a little. “That’s not true. You cook on a high-end level as a job. And I’ve had your cooking.”

Isabel grins. “Well, I guess this’ll be extra good, then.” And that brilliance flashing across her face—

_Oh, I can’t do this. I can’t._

_She’s so stupidly charming. Easy-going. Like a magnet, like a lighthouse, open arms, a blazing fireplace. She knows a little bit of everything. She’s warm when she hugs me. She smells like citrus and her hair is so shiny and she looks at me with the most idiotic kindness._

_I can’t believe myself. I think she’s lovely._

Isabel’s pouring uncooked rice into the pan, swirling it with the broth and chicken and everything else with one hand on her hip. Chiara stares at her back, and she grips the edge of her chair, and she listens to Isabel’s soft humming and watches the curve of her arms and her neck and lets herself dissolve fully into the moment.

“So,” Isabel says, suddenly very close— Chiara glances up to see her sitting across the table, and they’re looking right at each other, and it’s fucking heart-stopping.

“The wedding,” Chiara blurts, and shoves the folder of papers in front of her with entirely too much aggression. “You wanted to go over the menu details?”

Isabel nods and smiles like they’re not currently breathing down each other’s necks. “Yeah! There are only, what, twenty people?”

“Uh, sixteen guests, not including you all,” Chiara says, and pops open the folder to lay out the papers. “Here, the main courses are a little complicated, but it’s not the worst overall. I think the timing is pretty straightforward. But the cake— it’s…”

Isabel shuffles through the file and frowns down at a certain sheet. “Individual cakes?”

Chiara winces. “Yeah. And they have—”

“ _Seven layers?_ ”

“Each.”

Isabel presses her fingers into her temples, staring wide-eyed at the paper. “Don’t tell me Julie asked us to make twenty individual Dobos tortes.”

“Is that what they’re called?” Chiara leans forward a little, skimming the details again, mentally adding up just how much time they’re about to spend on all these tiny fucking _cakes._ Chocolate buttercream, vanilla sponge, brittle caramel sealing up the top— her wrists already hurt just thinking about all those layers.

Isabel sighs. “I should have known. It’s always been Julie and Daniel’s favorite, Anneliese likes it a lot too, and it’s like their thing, really—”

And they both snap up into a stunned kind of eye contact, Isabel’s jaw dropping, Chiara’s words stuck in her throat.

“Oh, shit,” Isabel murmurs, still staring straight into Chiara. 

_Wait— is that the first time I’ve heard her swear?_

“Did Julie really not think about any of this… does Anneliese…”

“No,” Chiara mumbles back, and she’s already starting to sweat like crazy with each passing word. “No, she doesn’t usually read the emails, just copy-pastes parts of them to me, because neither of them—”

“Are over any of it,” Isabel finishes, leaning back and finally breaking the eye contact, sighing massively. “I love them, I really do, but this is so much.”

“To be fair,” Chiara sighs, “I feel like Anneliese and Daniel are getting a little better about it. Though I still don’t have a damn clue about what there is to feel better about.”

Isabel sits back upright, shrugging. “Honestly? I think they’re more over it than they’d care to admit. Julie’s been away for a long, long time. We haven’t really seen her in person for a few years. She’s changed an incredible amount. And this whole cake thing isn’t much, really, but it’ll be magnified for them. It’s just hard to let go of the way things were. You start something, you feel like you need to see it through. You know?”

_Yeah. I know._

Chiara doesn’t say it, only nods, staring off to the side. Isabel just takes a deep breath and stands, going back to check on her paella.

“Well,” she says after a moment, arranging shelled prawns in the skillet and turning to wash her hands. “At least we can make those Dobos tortes in advance. They keep pretty well.”

“What, have you made them before?”

Isabel dries off her hands and grins. “I’ve done my research, and I’ve… watched some _people_ attempt to make them. But that’s about it.”

Chiara raises her eyebrows. “Attempt?”

Isabel’s smile grows. “Well, Julie’s not exactly a master chef, Daniel’s a little too intense, and Anneliese is _way_ too intense. They all are. Make them all crazy teenagers, and it’s just a complete disaster. Marianne and I saw entirely too much of that.”

She stares off into nowhere with that easy smile on her face, a look that makes Chiara somehow feel like she’s intruding on some golden flashback to the good old days, a look that makes her simultaneously burst with that melty fondness and a flash of jealousy. _She looks really happy— she looks joyous. She…_

“Anyways!” Isabel says, clasping her hands together and glancing back down at Chiara. “I think we’ll be fine, as long as I have some help in the kitchen. If that’s okay with you.”

“Yeah,” Chiara says, though it comes out slurred and confused, shaky as Isabel smiles full-force at her. _As long as I have your help,_ is what her eyes say. And Chiara is clutched by some strange feeling that runs over her, a blaring awareness of how they’re leaning over the table toward each other, a tight tension in her chest that contracts with each breath, each surge of this feeling she can’t recognize at all.

“Yeah. Okay.”

Isabel leans into her palm, looking lazily into Chiara’s face, and all Chiara can think about is how green her eyes are— how full her smile is—

“Can I ask you something?” Isabel says, and her voice skips and hesitates in its quiet. That glowy smile settles down into neutrality.

 _Oh, fuck._ Chiara’s throat refuses to cooperate— she just nods, though it’s more like a twitch, her hands clenching in her lap so much it hurts.

“I was wondering,” Isabel starts, “and you don’t have to answer. Just a hunch. But I was wondering if you’re straight.”

It’s like every organ in Chiara’s body rolls up into heavy, clenching knots in her stomach, and every part of her solidifies into stone, her head going blank with an overload of thoughts and feelings— because _what is that supposed to mean? Why is she asking? Is she just… curious? She’s a lesbian, is she trying to find a fellow lesbian in the wild or something? Are we bonding as friends? Are we supposed to relate to each other right now?_

_Is she trying to see if she has a chance with me?_

It’s such a wrong, twisted, incorrect thought. It’s so incredibly removed from reality, Chiara is astounded she can even think it. But it’s there, and it nags at her, and she can’t push any of it down anymore.

“I don’t know,” she says, and her voice is as meek as it’s ever been, and she still _can’t break the fucking eye contact._ “I don’t know, really, I just feel—”

 _I feel like I don’t know anything about me, and I don’t know if I’m remotely in the same league as any woman, and I have no idea if I could_ live _with a woman in a romantic way. But I don’t know if I could ever live with a man like that. I don’t know if I can keep feeling the nothing. I don’t know. I don’t think I could ever be a man’s wife._

“I feel like I just can’t, with men. I haven’t… with women.” And the words feel like a cascade of clear, cool newness over her, words that float out in front of her in a shockingly tangible manner, words that feel like an ice bath in the desert.

Whatever Chiara was expecting from Isabel, she absolutely doesn’t expect a warm hand on her shoulder—

“You know, if you want to talk about it, I’m always here. I mean that every time I say it.”

_I’m always here. Dear God._

“No, I just…” Chiara gulps, and she feels like she can’t breathe, won’t breathe. “I don’t know. Sorry. I keep saying that. I just don’t even know if that can be me.”

Isabel gives her shoulder a squeeze and stands, reaching to turn down the burner before turning back to Chiara. “No, I completely understand. It took me a long time to figure things out. You’re absolutely not obligated to be or know anything immediately, but, you know, thank you for trusting me with that. I know it was kind of out of left field.”

And she cracks a small smile, and Chiara can’t even get herself to ask _why?_

“Honestly,” Isabel continues, settling back into her seat, “I was really confused for a long time. And there are so many things that pointed to me being a lesbian without it being really obvious, if that makes sense? Picking and choosing men to be attracted to, never being interested in real and attainable men, dating trans women years before they transitioned, being obsessed with my female friends, and just… forcing myself into thinking about men. It wasn’t logical, but it happened.”

She smiles ruefully, fiddling with her necklace, and Chiara—

“I,” she starts, and she blurts the rest, frantic rushing words giving voice to thoughts she’s always pushed away. “Me too. I couldn’t— I didn’t, I don’t know. I felt defective. I didn’t know what to do. I don’t remember the vast majority of my life, I have no idea if I’ve even, you know, liked a woman. I just knew I couldn’t do any of it. So I tried some kind of fucked up exposure therapy, but to men, because I guess that’s what you do, except I couldn’t tolerate it without, without—”

Isabel holds up a gentle hand, her expression softened and slight.

“Hey,” she says. “You don’t have to talk about anything if you don’t want to. You have all the time in the world.”

“Okay,” Chiara says, and she can’t tell if the tears pushing at the back of her eyes are relieved or devastated, and she can’t believe she’s having this conversation with this person and there are actual words coming out of her mouth and _I might be a lesbian._

_That just makes me feel…_

_Not wrong. I don’t know what I feel._

_I might be a lesbian._

_“I’m attracted to women, and I’m a lesbian—”_

_What the fuck. God, does that mean I’m interested in her for real?_

“You know what, let’s eat,” Isabel says, sweeping up the papers on the table with a smile. “We really do have all the time in the world. Can you cut a lemon into wedges?”

“Okay,” Chiara says, and she takes the deepest breath of her life when she steps into the pantry, the force of it drawing her upright and pushing through her lungs into the rest of her body. She feels all emptied out, light and weightless on her feet. She feels hollow. She picks out a lemon and she soaks up the sensation of being— she’s released, she’s open, and when she goes back into the kitchen and gets to work, the knife slides through the layers of rind and pith with a slick smoothness she’s never felt before.

_It's good. It's alright._

Isabel’s setting out plates and forks and laying out the pan of paella, golden and crisp on the edges. The shrimp is rosy, succulent. The chicken is seared perfectly. The lemon wedges add a pleasing shock of brightness to the pan when Chiara lays them out in a quick garnish, and she feels so incredibly—

Raw, butterflied open, looking at the perfection of the plate in front of her, the domesticity of it all, Isabel sitting across from her, _I might be a lesbian._

“It looks nice,” she says, because that’s the only thing she can get herself to say.

“Thank you,” Isabel says, and Chiara can’t help drowning in the openness reflecting on Isabel’s face, feeling like they’re in a shrinking bubble of something she can’t help thinking of as akin to... affection.

_Nothing is happening, really. Nothing at all. We’re just sharing a meal. But I’m happy._

_I’m happy. I’m content. I don’t know why or what I feel about her, I don’t know who or what I am. I’m just… happy right now. I’m really alright._

“Here,” Isabel says, and she hands Chiara the serving spoon with warm hands. “Help yourself.”

The scoop she takes is fragrant, saffron-tinted, brown and crispy on the bottom, and Chiara’s first bite of tender chicken and savory-spicy-delicious rice with a squeeze of lemon might just be the happiest she’s ever felt. There’s a rich earthy flavor under it all, that distinct taste of Spanish peppers browned with tomato and onion, impossibly delicious and impeccably put together. It is, indeed, one of the best meals of her life. She closes her eyes and lets it all sink in.

The expression on Isabel’s face when she looks up mid-bite is incomprehensible.

“What,” Chiara says after she swallows, a sudden stab of self-consciousness bursting through her floaty contentment.

Isabel reddens— _oh no—_ and clears her throat.

“Oh, is it good?”

_Yes, it’s good. It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever had. You’re a genius. I can taste exactly how every individual element comes together, how carefully and precisely you timed every step, how much I find myself admiring you and everything you do—_

_God, I’m fucking hopeless._

“Yeah,” Chiara says. “I’ve never had a better meal.”

Isabel laughs, though it stutters hard, and she puts her face in her hands in a way that feels profoundly private.

“I’m glad,” she says, her voice soft and muffled. “I’m really glad. That’s great.”

Chiara gulps. “Are you, uh. Okay?”

“Honestly,” Isabel says. “This might be selfish. And I don’t mean to take advantage of you, and I don’t expect anything from you. I just really like you.”

Chiara—

Can’t move, and she can’t put down her fork and knife, and she can’t do anything other than sit there with her lungs frozen and her brain overheating, because _that can’t be right. That cannot be right. She didn’t just say that._

“Sorry,” Isabel continues, a breathiness in her voice, the tips of her ears going red. “I know you have your own stuff you’re dealing with right now. And I respect that. I just. I wanted you to know, I guess. We don’t have to say anything about it right now. I’m really happy with just being your friend.”

And oh, God, Chiara feels like she’s melting all the way now, like she’s the stub of a candle dripping into scalding-hot wax, her own face burning with such ferocity it might as well be the flame.

_I want to say—_

_I might feel the same._

_This has to be a mistake._

_This can’t be real._

_This can’t be real._

_Dear God, it’s real. It’s real. There’s a woman sitting across from me and she’s incomprehensibly captivating and she wants to be my friend and more than my friend and I barely just realized I might be a_ lesbian, _and this can’t be real but it’s real. It’s real._

“I’m,” she says, “I.” _I really like you too. I think about you entirely too often. I’m beyond weak. I’m melting._

But none of it comes out, not even when Isabel lifts her head slightly and peers back with bright eyes, and so Chiara stretches her legs out a little on instinct with her face still burning up and her chest trembling and she brushes the side of her foot against Isabel’s, the pressure sending a full shiver of electricity up into her, hot and paralyzing, and Isabel seems to sag with relief and smiles at her with _that smile_ and looks at her with _those eyes._

“Come on, let’s eat,” she says, her voice easy and smooth. And there’s an easy and smooth contact against Chiara’s calf, piercing through layers of clothes, an easy and smooth interlocking between their legs and feet, overlapping and meshing in that easy warmth until it feels like she can’t distinguish where she ends and Isabel begins—

And her heart stops so completely it’s hard to believe she was ever alive. And they eat.


	15. strange new flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Everything comes and goes  
> Pleasure moves on too early,  
> And trouble leaves too slow."  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["Down To You"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T3ZgSUmuy74)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! some stuff happened, but I'm here again and ready to dive into this story! so here's a long crazy chapter to make up for that lost time. I really hope yall like this one ;)
> 
> CWs: we are back to talking about suicidality, mental breakdowns, and past trauma. I touch on sexual trauma in a similar sense to the last time I mentioned it, where it's self inflicted and not described much or in a graphic manner. tbh some parts may be confusing/difficult to understand, I am going into that Repressed Brain type of shit, but I hope all the pieces will fall into place if you do some rereading (and maybe glance over the last few chapters again!) basically I tried hard to do some of that 4D plot chess so let me know how that turned out lol.
> 
> anyways thank you to everyone who has supported me during this process, your comments/kudos/etc have been incredibly motivating. please enjoy :)

Nothing really changes over the next few days, the next week or so— Chiara checks in guests, cooks, cleans, drives, eats, sleeps, does what she does. She ends up getting a call from Feli and Roberto every few days. She notices every time Daniel and Anneliese turn to each other with some probing, telepathic stare, she keeps her mouth shut for the most part, and she tries to be normal.

Except—

Everything changes, really, and it’s impossible to have a _normal_ emotion about anything when she finds herself in the kitchen with Isabel most days, or chatting on the porch at night, or just silently staring at each other in the most random, freakish moments, hyper-aware of that careful distance Isabel slides between them, the unreality of it all, the tight grip Chiara holds on herself. She does a lot of scoffing, a lot of eye rolling. She doesn’t move away when they brush hands. She carries conversations, until it feels like too much, until it feels like she’s scraped raw. _And it feels alright._

_I don’t even know what’s supposed to be happening right now. I don’t even know what to say. I don’t know how I feel, any of that, I just…_

_I like listening to her talk. I like it when we just look at each other. And she might— no, she_ does _feel the same. Does she? No, she does. For some godforsaken reason. I don’t know why. I especially don’t know why I believe her._

“What are you thinking about?” Isabel says, a laugh hiding behind her voice as it shatters the bubble, and Chiara blinks back to reality to see Isabel grinning next to her.

Her face lights up brilliantly with golden-hour sunlight, rays slanting over the two of them and glinting up sparks in her eyes. The necklace glows against her and Chiara is overwhelmed with an urge to reach for it— she can already feel that flush bloom across her face, and she tries to breathe, to ground herself in the sandy grit on the porch under her palm, the rigid wall against her back. 

Of course, it doesn’t do anything— not when they’re barely an inch apart, upper arms brushing, not staring at Isabel’s golden-tan legs that are just _right there—_

“Oh. Nothing,” Chiara mumbles, wrenching her face back to the ocean and the too-bright sun.

Isabel chuckles. “You were smiling. I was just curious.”

“It’s nothing.” _I’m happy. I feel like I have a real friend. I like this a lot._ Chiara gulps down a primal urge to slap her hands over her face and never look at anything again. “I feel fine.”

“Well, I’m glad.”

_Fuck, I’m so red right now. I’m burning up. I’m_ blushing. _Me, Chiara Vargas, blushing. I’ve been staring at the ocean with someone for the last ten minutes and I’m blushing._

She keeps her eyes fixed on the dappled glint of the water as it shifts and squirms under harsh sunlight. She does not think about Isabel.

“Hey,” Isabel says, and _there goes that plan._ “You don’t have to. But can I hold your hand?”

_There goes that plan. There goes that plan by a million fucking years._

Chiara has no clue on how she can even begin to process that, how she can even start to formulate a response to a _grown woman_ wanting to hold her hand, like they’re dumb teenagers at the back of a movie theater, like she’s been tossed back ten years and forced to interact with other dumb teenagers for the first time.

Paralysis jolts through her. Stupidity springs up nonetheless. She forces her arm through the fog, she jerkily slides her left hand palm-up into the space between them— she holds her breath as a warm hard takes hers, and laces their fingers up together, relaxed but firm against her.

Chiara doesn’t stop staring at the sunset like she’s waiting for the lottery numbers. She doesn’t stop even when Isabel leans against her, and suddenly her hair is against Chiara’s neck, and _did she just put her head on my shoulder._

_Dear God, she put her head on my shoulder. And I feel free as a fucking bird._

The moment in and of itself is too long, too short, as every moment lately seems to be, and the sun feels like it’s just getting brighter and brighter, like it’s searing away her outsides— and Chiara is almost, barely, kind of getting used to the sensation of a real human body against her own when Isabel’s phone starts to buzz impatiently in her pocket.

“Oh,” Isabel says, sitting upright and digging for her phone with a frown. “It’s… Marianne?”

Chiara doesn’t even have time to mourn that lost warmth before Isabel shoots up to her feet, glancing around and pacing in a burst of energy, her face incredulous and open.

“Marie! Yes! Whoa, no way— how long?”

_What the hell. What is it now?_

Isabel turns to Chiara, beaming, quickly mouthing something absolutely incomprehensible before a stream of “Yes, yep, yeah, absolutely, yeah! Uh huh!” comes out of her mouth and she swivels back to pacing. It’s a lot. It feels like Chiara’s intruding on some private moment, a feeling that intensifies by a million when Isabel giggles so brightly it shatters every bit of familiarity and comfort from before.

“Okay! See you soon!” Isabel says at last, hovering on the balls of her feet, craning her head closer to the sliding door to peer through.

“Marianne,” she blurts as soon as she hangs up, grinning at Chiara, “is coming early. Right now. Oh my God, she’s going to be here in a minute or two, I’m so excited for you to meet her, she’s the _best._ ”

“Okay,” Chiara says. She doesn’t feel very okay. She feels—

Weird. Jealous. Isabel speeds off to do God knows what, and Chiara pries herself from the porch, thinking of perfect waves of hair parting around a beautiful face, cheek kisses, chest consumed by a creeping, crawling thing that conveniently ignores every interaction she and Isabel have ever had.

_This is so ridiculous. I really am like a teenager all over again. It doesn’t even matter. I shouldn’t even care._

Oh, but she does. She really fucking does.

_And I can’t even admit anything about my feelings to her. This is so stupid._

She spends another peaceful minute staring out at the ocean, at the sunset that’s just beginning to pull out its colors. She begs herself for some kind of normalcy within the next few minutes. And then she turns her back, and she goes inside.

The moment she slides the door shut behind her, someone _squeals,_ and there’s Isabel in the foyer, swinging the aforementioned Marianne in circles. She’s in a camel-colored wool coat, suede heels kicking the air and hair floating all around her— if it’s possible, she’s even more stunning in person, delicate but bold, the joy on her face only amping it up. Both of them are giggling like crazy.

“No, no,” Marianne gasps. Her voice is husky, rich, teasing— “Stop it, Isa, I’m going to vomit.”

“Vomit away, girly-girl,” Isabel crows, and they burst into another round of giggles as if that’s the pinnacle of comedy, though Isabel sets her down as soon as she says it.

“You,” Marianne pants, slumping against the wall with a red-lipstick grin, “are crazy.”

“You’re the one who showed up out of the blue!” Isabel cries.

Marianne chuckles and tucks her hair behind her ear. “What can I say. I had to come back to Newport to see my best friend get married and spectate with my _other_ best friend, really— oh, that’s not Anneliese or Daniel, hello!”

_Shit, the goddess is talking to me._ Chiara gulps hard and finds herself fidgeting with the hem of her cuff, feeling entirely too aware of the scuffs on her boots and the frizz that’s probably making itself known around her face, too aware of the delicate ruffles running across Marianne’s blouse.

“Hey,” she says.

“That’s Chiara,” Isabel says, shooting a grin in her direction. “Chiara, this is Marianne!”

“Yep,” Chiara mumbles. _God, I must look so awkward right now._

Marianne seems to pick up on that— she also has the most perfect-looking smirk Chiara has ever seen. _How the fuck do you smirk perfectly? Is there even such a thing as correctly smirking? How do women do that?_

“She’s _cute,_ ” Marianne stage-whispers to Isabel, conspiratorial look on her face shifting into a grin when she gets shoved, and Chiara can feel her face mirroring Isabel’s furious blush in that moment.

Marianne just laughs, obviously incredibly amused. “Well, it’s good to meet you after hearing so much, putting a face to the name and all that. And we really have to cook together sometime. Isabel just loves—”

“ _Marie._ ”

Marianne turns that fond amusement to Isabel, slinging an arm over her shoulder. “Alright, alright. Come on now, you have to show me around, we can’t bother your girlfriend forever.”

_Please, God, just end me right here._

Chiara feels so stupid, because she’s definitely entirely too embarrassed and _happy_ about that word. Isabel squirms and grins and it’s just… a lot. Too much. It feels like meeting the parents, dinner with the siblings, some kind of convoluted situation that only applies to people who are actually in relationships, and yet she’s here and it’s way too much.

_We’re not even girlfriends. Not remotely so._

_It’s— right. It feels right. God, this is so embarrassing._

Her phone chooses the perfect time to start blaring and buzzing in her pocket, _thank God,_ and she rushes out in a flurry to pick up the phone in the safety of her own room. Marianne giggles behind her, Isabel’s voice joining in a few seconds later.

_Christ. Thanks, Feli, I would have ended my shit otherwise._ She quickly swipes at the phone and presses it to her ear.

“Hello?” a man’s voice says, clear and light.

_Shit, it’s not Feli? It’s not Roberto, it’s…_

She coughs politely. “Hello, who is this?”

“Oh, I was just planning to leave a message about that listing you posted on B&B Team. Is this, uh… the right number?”

Oh. It’s that.

Chiara swallows, takes a deep breath, clears her head of pretty women and nerves and wedding reservations. Then she grabs a pen and a legal pad.

_Fuck it. I have to take the plunge at some point. I have to do this._

“Actually,” she says. “If you’re available right now, I’d be happy to interview you.”

* * *

The interview goes smoothly, incredibly so— Chiara can’t help feeling a little suspicious, it went so well, and she can’t tell if that’s a good sign or not. Mostly, she’s worn out. She’s done. She feels a little foolish, a little weird, a little uncertain.

Because, really, _what am I going to do?_

She can’t say otherwise at this point: _I want to be with Isabel._ And leaving the Quill doesn’t seem like the _best_ thing, but staying feels weird, and there’s probably something weird and unethical about dating your boss, even though Isabel doesn’t seem to have any issues with it? And Roberto is making a full recovery, so he’ll be back— what then? What was her point in doing this? Why did she choose this hill to die on?

_I just feel…_

_I feel it’s for the best._

Chiara doesn’t feel as lost as she used to here. She doesn’t feel _right,_ either, she doesn’t feel like she can just stay forever or even for six more months. It’s just weird. It’s just wrong. It feels like she’s going to fuck it all up any second.

_Besides, that guy I talked to… he actually seems like a great fit. He was so much nicer than I could ever be. He had so much more experience. Wouldn’t Roberto want… I don’t know, someone competent running his business? Wouldn’t the other staff feel better about it?_

_Face it, this just isn’t for you. And you need to accept that._

_It’s not like I_ want _to stay—_

_But you do._

Chiara throws herself back onto her bed, staring at the ceiling until it starts swimming and blurring in her eyes. She’s not crying. She just doesn’t know.

Her phone buzzes.

_hey,_ a text from Feli says. _can grandpa call you right now?_

_He has his phone on him?_ she types back.

_yep, i got it out for him_ _  
_ _can you?_

_Yeah._

She takes the plunge and dials him first, burying herself in her comforter and closing her eyes. It’s only nine, and the sky is still twilight-blue outside, but she already feels drained beyond comparison.

_I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I don’t know how I’m going to muscle through this conversation knowing I’m about to pawn off the Quill to some random guy._

“Chiara,” Roberto says, shattering her thoughts with a smile in his voice. “You called?”

“I did,” she says dryly. “What is it.”

“Oh, I just wanted to check in,” he says.

“What, have you been feeling weaker than usual?”

He laughs, and Chiara is struck by how feeble it sounds, how she’s listened to his laugh shifting from a booming roar to a tired chuckle to something akin to a breathy wheeze, a short huff of air. It turns her stomach. It recalls an aging hospital, an aging hospital bed with an aging man, bony, weak, a sight she hasn’t been back to see since for a reason.

_Selfish. As if your discomfort is worse than his pain._

“I’m always a little tired,” he says. “It is how it is. The physical therapy is helping, though.”

“Huh.”

“Ah, but that’s not why I’m calling. Really, are you alright?”

Chiara scoffs. “It’s fine. Why do you keep asking me this?”

“I was just thinking about our conversation when you came to see me,” he says mildly. “And I was wondering if anything’s changed. You know?”

“No,” she blurts on instinct. “Nothing.”

Roberto doesn’t say anything, just exhales lightly, leaving a blank space that begs to be filled with _something._

_Maybe he does know me after all. This is— unbearable._

“I, uh,” she says, debates on saying it, settles on spitting out the only thing she can think of. “I’ve been talking more. With the staff. And Isabel.”

And _he starts fucking laughing!_

It’s the same weak, despicable laugh, the same quiet sound, and it’s exactly the reaction she would expect. Unsurprisingly, that doesn’t make it any less embarrassing.

“Shut up,” she mutters, burrowing further into her blankets.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Roberto says mirthfully. “If you mean what I think you mean, that is, if—”

“Shut _up,_ please.”

He laughs again. This time, it’s…

Less depressing? It feels more like a reflection of his old self, like she can still hear the echo of the usual boom of laughter at the dinner table, ringing in this old man’s wheezing. It makes her furiously embarrassed. It makes her feel just a little bit normal.

“That’s no way to speak to your elders, is it?” he says, though it’s obvious he’s kidding. “But alright. I’m happy for you two, though, you hear me?”

“It’s not even—” Chiara rolls her eyes. _He can’t even see me. I just hate this._ “Whatever.”

“Really,” Roberto says. “You were so upset last time, but you’ve seemed better these last few weeks. And I’m glad to hear about all of it. I really enjoy talking with you, you know, it’d be nice to hear from you more—”

“What, am I supposed to call you hourly and dictate every thought in my head?”

He snorts. “I wouldn’t mind. I mean what I say, you know. Hearing from you is always a good thing. And I can assure you Feliciano feels the same way.”

“Huh.”

_I’m… not completely repulsed by that. What the hell. God forbid Feli’s infecting me._

“But you sound…” Roberto trails off, thoughtful, and Chiara feels herself freeze up with anticipatory anxiety. “You sound worried. Is something bothering you?”

_You’re not my mom,_ she thinks, though she doesn’t dare to say it out loud. _There’s nothing bothering me,_ she thinks, though that’s blatantly untrue. _Everything is bothering me,_ she thinks, though that’s entirely too truthful.

“I don’t know,” she finally says.

And then, unbridled, she says— “I’ve been thinking. About the past.”

“Hmm.”

“And the people I’ve known. And the things I’ve done.”

He’s quiet. She continues.

“And I feel… I haven’t changed any of it. I still think about it. All of it. All of the people I knew back then. All the stupid shit I did.”

_I still think about him,_ is what she means. A proud grin— a friendly smile, a bright voice, energy filling the room. Confusion, tears, insecurity behind closed doors, a shining star for everyone else. Happy-go-lucky. A bolder, sharper reflection of Isabel, someone whose tears sliced through her, whose tears she watered.

A reflection of Isabel.

The thought terrifies her. She clamps her mouth shut and breathes and listens to Roberto’s clattering breathing on the other side of the line.

“You underestimate yourself,” he says at last. “Things are very different.”

“I _know,_ I just…”

“I mean it, I do. Really, very, truly different. I’ve said this before, but it’s the truth. You have to understand that it’s been years, and you’ve changed.”

“You don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

“Well, does anyone?”

_No._ “No.”

“Well, maybe that’s a start,” Roberto says, and his voice is soft, malleable, shifting underneath the words.

“A start,” Chiara echoes.

“Yes,” he says. “I think it’ll help you. I think you’re already on that path, really, letting other people know what you’re really talking about. I know you can keep doing it.”

He’s soft. Kind. Cushioning her, just like everyone else these days, fuzzy words wrapping around her like these blankets, and her drowsiness spikes in those few seconds.

“I’m going to bed,” Chiara says.

“Have a good night,” he says, and that smile enters his voice again, and she burrows deeper.

“Okay,” she says.

“I’ll talk to you soon, okay?” her grandfather says.

“Okay.”

“I love you, Chiara. I believe in you.”

Her eyes throb. She wants to go to bed. “Goodnight.”

And she hangs up, and she lets a tear or two slip out. Deep breaths. Sleep settles in as soon as she exhales.

* * *

The next few days are an odd kind of calm before the storm. Isabel uses her days off and spends them with Marianne, something Chiara can’t find herself feeling too strongly about after seeing the incandescent joy on Isabel’s face time after time, and Marianne makes at least five sponge cakes that are much better than they have any right to be. It’s impossible to feel too jealous when you’re eating through fluffy layers of buttercream and sponge and strawberries— and it’s fine. Chiara’s fine.

She’s fine, so she soaks up the few quick moments she does have with Isabel, and she works on drowning herself in cooking and cleaning and organizing. They clean up the cabin Julie and her fiancée are supposed to stay in. They stock up on ingredients, they pick up all the decorations, they check out the last few guests, and it’s fine. It’s all fine, even as she emails a follow-up to that candidate and sets up a date for him to start training. It’s all fine. Nobody hears a word about it.

_I’m doing it for Roberto’s sake. For Isabel’s, for the staff’s, for the Quill’s sake._

At least, that’s what she says to herself. That’s what she mumbles over and over when the date turns out to be the day Julie and her fiancée are supposed to check in, when each hour brings her closer and closer, when she pays for his rental car and calls everyone into the main room.

She settles in at the head of the dining table. First is Daniel, and he doesn’t even say anything for a solid thirty seconds, just stares—

Then: “Is this about…”

Chiara sighs, rolls her eyes. “No, I don’t care about Julie. It’s my replacement.”

He blanches, sits, stares down at the table. “Okay, well. I still really can’t believe… did you find a candidate, or?”

“He’s on his way right now.”

“You— _what?_ ” Daniel glances up, bewildered. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m training him,” she mutters. “During the wedding. I told you, I wanted someone to help out.”

“Oh, God,” Daniel moans, tugging at his ponytail with a pinched expression. “I’m already dying about seeing Julie again. He couldn’t come on a better day?”

“No,” Chiara says, and her voice is acidic, because _this is getting old. This is getting really fucking old._ “And I don’t care, frankly. I don’t see why it’s such a big deal.”

“What’s a big deal?” Anneliese’s voice says— Chiara glances up to see her sliding into the chair next to Daniel, Isabel coming up behind her and sitting down next to Chiara.

“Hey,” Isabel says, aiming a beaming smile in Chiara’s direction, a smile that’s so effervescent it’s almost like none of this is actually happening, and Chiara finds herself smiling back ever-so-slightly.

“Where’s Marianne?” Chiara says. _Maybe she can save me from this conversation._

Isabel shrugs with a laugh. “No clue. I just gave her my car keys, who knows what she’s up to—”

“Okay, that’s a mistake,” Daniel says, jabbing a pointer finger at her with a critical skepticism. “Do you _know_ what happened last time someone lent Marianne their car?”

Isabel laughs fully at that. Anneliese just frowns, looking a little affronted, and clears her throat.

“Other matters aside,” she says, and she turns to Chiara. “What’s this so-called big deal? Why are we here?”

_Oh, here we go. It’s the moment._

“Well, I’ve employed a new innkeeper,” Chiara says, and she crosses her arms and leans back in her seat. “I’ll be training him over the next week as we get ready for this wedding. And he’s on his way here right now.”

Complete silence. Then—

“You’re kidding,” Anneliese says, and her voice gets louder and harsher than Chiara’s ever heard it. “You’re _fucking_ kidding, right.”

Chiara can’t help flinching back at the swearing, at the stern and ashen expression solid on Anneliese’s face, the heavy snarl in her eyebrows.

“I don’t—” She clears her throat, squinting back at Anneliese. “Okay, I don’t know what the hell your problem is. I’m helping us all out. Like I said, not a big deal.”

“You’re _leaving_ us. Yes, it’s a big deal,” Anneliese spits back. “And you didn’t even have the dignity to say so? I thought we were friends, I thought—”

And she freezes suddenly, whirling over to Daniel with that rage intensified by a million.

“Did any of you know about this. Daniel, you knew about this, didn’t you?”

“Hey!” Daniel cries, holding up his hands. “I’m not even—”

“So you two have been _lying—_ ”

_Jesus Christ. I’m already sick and tired of this._

“If you’re going to be prissy, do it to Chiara—”

“That’s enough,” Chiara barks, and she slams a palm onto the dining table. “Shut up. Leave him out of this. Both of you shut up. This is _my_ choice, _I’m_ the boss, I do what I fucking want, and I thought it’d be helpful for all of you to have someone else. I thought I’d be doing everyone a favor and we’d have extra help for the wedding. So shut the _hell_ up and be grateful.”

They gape back at her. And she’s suddenly incredibly, painfully aware of Isabel, as if she’s just appeared out of nowhere, as if Chiara’s brain strung up a curtain between the two of them and just snipped it down— and Isabel looks frozen solid, and her eyes are glittering and Chiara _cannot_ comprehend what everyone’s problem is right now.

“I can’t believe you,” Anneliese groans. “This doesn’t make any damn sense. You sound delusional, you’re— what are we going to do when you leave?”

“Look, when the hell did this become something personal? It’s a job, a temporary one at that. It could be done better. That’s all,” Chiara scoffs, though any bravado she might have had is draining away with each passing second she has to see Isabel’s rigid expression, worsening with each word she says.

_I’m just trying— I’m just trying to do this for us. That’s so stupid. That’s normal, right? That’s completely…_

The line of Anneliese’s shoulders is rigid, clenching up. This is not improving. And Isabel looks so fucking pitiful and small and Chiara wants to scream at everyone, because they were all supposed to just say _damn, alright_ and move on, because Isabel opens her mouth but doesn’t say anything, just brings her gaze up and looks at Chiara with _those eyes._ Some ocean yawns open between them— between Chiara and the other three, between Chiara and her feelings.

“Are…” Isabel finally says, and her voice is just as small as she looks in that moment. “Are you going back to Virginia, then?”

_No, I honestly maybe just wanted to find a place here, or stay with Feli, and work some odd jobs until I get settled, and we can keep staring at the beach and holding hands and drive up and down this foggy coast for as long as we want. Because I like it here. I like you. I just wanted to do the right thing. I just wanted to do the right thing._

She can’t—

She can’t say any of it, not to herself, much less Isabel and Daniel and Anneliese. She can’t shake her head no or nod her head yes. She wants to scream _I’m never going back there_ but she can’t even calm the screaming of blood rushing in her ears.

“Okay,” Isabel says. “That’s fine.” And then a little tear slips across her face when she looks down— and Chiara has a horrible, horrible feeling, a dread that crawls up her so cold she goes numb.

_No. No, wait. Wait. Stop. I just mean—_

_I hate everything. I hate everyone. I’m tired. I don’t understand any of it._

Daniel sighs, puts one hand on Anneliese’s shoulder and the other in the middle of the table. “Look, let’s all just… chill out and respect Chiara’s decision, okay? The guy’s going to show up any minute now, _Julie_ is showing up any minute.”

“Oh, that’s easy for you to say,” Anneliese spits, still glaring a hole into Chiara. “You couldn’t even be honest with us.”

_For God’s sake, shut the fuck up. Shut up. I can’t take this anymore._

“I just don’t see why it’s such a big fucking deal!” Chiara snarls, rage washing away all of that rigid paralysis. Isabel is wiped from her head. The new guy, Julie, the wedding, Daniel, Anneliese, Feli and Roberto, tears and anxiety, they all go up in smoke—

“I don’t fucking get it,” she says, “this is why I’m leaving, I’m out, I don’t know what the fuck your problem is. I don’t know what any of you want from me.”

“My _problem,_ Chiara,” Anneliese says, and she shoves Daniel’s hand away from her, “is the utter lack of transparency and trust on your part. And the real problem beyond our _stupid feelings_ is the peddling of your grandfather’s beloved business to some stranger because you don’t even have the dignity to wait a month. What’s happening when he comes back? Do you have any idea how much he—”

“No,” Chiara interrupts, everything frozen cold, everything numb with rage. “No, I don’t. I don’t care. I didn’t ask. Yes, I’m a lazy stupid piece of shit and I wish I had _never_ fucking come here, I wish I didn’t fail last time I tried to kill myself, I wish I didn’t exist. That’d be a dream come true. I’m selfish, I don’t care. I want out. I’m shitty and can’t do my job right. Are you fucking happy?”

For once, they’re all silent. Anneliese’s breathing hard, her eyes burning with impatient vitriol like a caged animal, Daniel’s face opens up into brazen shock, Isabel’s expression is so unbearable to see Chiara strikes it completely from her sight and mind.

And then the front door opens.

“Hey,” a man says, stepping in with a big bomber jacket he’s busy peeling off, glancing around with light glinting off his glasses. “Is anyone— Oh, hi, may I speak to a Ms. Vargas?”

_We must look so ridiculous right now,_ some part of Chiara thinks. _I can’t move,_ another part of her says.

The man— a Mr. Alfred Jones from the phone interview, clearly— flashes a nervous smile in their direction, what with one person visibly crying and the other three mired in shock and rage, and Chiara stares back for entirely too long before her customer service face finally snaps back on and she straightens herself back up.

“Oh, I’m sorry, that’s me,” she says, clears her throat for extra measure. “Mr. Jones?”

He chuckles, though it comes out more like a terrified exhale. “Uh, yeah, did I come at a bad time? I must be a little early, I—”

“You’re completely fine,” she says. It’s a little more brusque than intended, judging by his visible gulp, but she awkwardly waves him toward the couch. “Here, have a seat, I’ll be right with you.”

“You are _not._ Getting out of this,” Anneliese hisses, though her voice is more stammering and shocked than anything else. Daniel just heaves a heavy sigh.

Chiara tries to mirror that sigh, to fill her lungs with air for just a moment, to put her words together and focus on the good, because _I can explain. I can explain it all to them. I can be forgiven. It’s not a big deal, it’s not, I slipped up and said too much, but I can fix it. I can._

She doesn’t even get to open her mouth when the door swings open again.

This time, it’s a woman, wavy blonde hair cut short above her shoulders and blue eyes shining behind thick glasses. She’s lugging a big suitcase, staring off into the distance with a soft unfocused expression—

“God, not now,” Daniel mutters, and that cold creeping dread intensifies in Chiara’s stomach until it’s the only thing she can feel.

_Is that…_

Anneliese vigorously shakes herself, running nervous hands through her hair, her voice trembling in a complete 180 of that shock and rage from before.

“That’s Maddie. Julie’s coming,” she mutters, staring as the woman (Julie’s fiancée, Chiara supposes) frowns down at her phone, tucking her hair behind her ear—

_I should be glad the attention’s off of me. I should be happy they’re moving on and I can get acquainted with the new hire and as long as I don’t look at Isabel right now, as long as I talk to her later, I’ll be alright. The wedding is the priority. Julie and Maddie are the priority. I should be relieved. I should do my job. I should get him ready to do my job in a few weeks._

_So why do I feel…_

And the door opens for a third time. Another woman, striking and sharp, comes in with her own luggage— her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, bleached a bright platinum that seems to glow fluorescent under the warm lights, setting her apart from the rest of the Quill, from her all-black clothes and platform boots. She has to be Julie. She looks…

Beautiful. Intriguing. Familiar.

“Oh, fuck,” Daniel whispers, and his voice is just as shaky as Anneliese’s, and she sees them grasp instinctively at each other in her periphery like lost children. _Oh fuck indeed._

She looks really, really familiar. Almost-white hair. Long fingers and arms. Sharp, crazy smile, beaming full-force at her fiancée, and light eyes that flash wonderfully, eyes that turn and glance at the four of them.

Eyes that move up and stare straight into Chiara.

A freezing, freezing cold, so cold it’s painful, shoots through Chiara like a horrible firework, and there’s a miniscule sliver of a moment as Julie opens her mouth when she can only remember:

_I love you._

_Ha. Okay. That’s funny._

_I’m serious, I mean it! I meant it last time, too, I meant it the time before—_

_You always say you mean everything._

_And I do. I’m really happy with you, you know that?_

_Sure._

_(I’m happy with you too. I’m not. I don’t know if I can ever be happy with you. I want to be happy with you. I want to be with you forever. I could do it. I don’t know what love feels like, but if this is as happy as it gets— I love you. I’m happy with you too.)_

_Chiara?_

_What._

_Come here._

_(I’m laughing, and I love it when you hold me like that, but I don’t. I’m laughing, but I’m hurting you.)_

It can’t be. It can’t be. It can’t be.

_(No, I shouldn’t be doing this. I don’t want to do this. I want to go home. I want to be home with him, not this random guy. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I don’t know what else to do.)_

_You good?_

_Yeah._

_(No. Not good. I want this person to get off of me. I want to not want that. I want to fix this.)_

_Fuck, yes, keep going—_

_(I can’t keep doing this. I can’t.)_

_(I hate this. I feel disgusting, and I hate it, I hate myself, I want the control back. I want it back. My head hurts.)_

_You?_

_No, I’m fine._

_(I’m not fine. I’m hurting him. I’m hurting. I’m hurting. This hurts. Feli, it really hurts, you said I could call you— if I was ever in trouble, if I needed a ride home. It hurts, it hurts, come pick me up, I can’t stop throwing up, I did way too much Xanax, I let that kid put his hands on me, I’m letting this man put his hands on me. I have a boyfriend. I have someone I love. It hurts really bad. Please come get me. I feel so sick.)_

“Chiara,” Julie says, and sure enough, the same voice, the same way of saying her name, only it’s colored bitter and coming through clenched teeth. That voice—

_Why would you ever do that to me— I thought we— I thought, I thought—_

_(Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. Please don’t cry. I love you. I love you so much. I didn’t mean it. I did mean it. I don’t know what I want. I just wanted to feel something. I just wanted it to stop. I just wanted to feel something. I wanted a choice.)_

_I…_

_How many people, Chiara?_

_I…_

_Chiara. Chiara, how many, how many, you have to tell me, we can’t—_

_(No. Yes. No. I did this. I did this.)_

_You can’t cheat on me, you can’t do this to me, then act like— act like how you’re acting, not when you fucking— not when I’m the one who—_

_I…_

_(I love you, is what I want to say. I really care about you. I want to be with you forever. You’re my best friend. I was so fucking lost, and now we have a place together, and I love you. And being with you is like— like lying on a blanket in the grass in the summer, and you look for the unnatural blueness of the sky, the plush clouds, and there’s a tiny little breeze that brushes over your face and sweeps your hair back. I don’t know why I did it. I don’t know why I kept hurting you. I don’t know why I can’t say a word right now. I can’t even see you through all your crying.)_

_How could you do that to me. How could you do that to us. How could you—_

_I…_

_Months. Months, Chiara. Entire months where I was in the dark and you were… you weren’t. I can’t believe this. You fucking bitch._

“You fucking bitch,” Julie says, and oh, it can’t be, but it is.

_Isabel says, “There are so many things that pointed to me being a lesbian without it being really obvious, if that makes sense?”_

_Like using men to destroy myself. Like picking and choosing. Like praying to feel anything._

_And then she says, “Like dating trans women years before they transitioned.”_

_Hair bleached platinum-white. Crazy smiles. Life of the party. It can’t be. Who’s going to come to my funeral? Chiara, you have to tell me, who would come? Who would even think about showing up? How could you do that to us? I love you._

_I fucked up the only good thing I ever had. I was obsessed with killing myself step-by-step. I destroyed someone else, and now she’s here, staring me right in the face._

_I love you._

_You fucking bitch._

Daniel and Anneliese visibly recoil— Isabel whirls over to look at Chiara. She does not look back. She does not see the expression on Isabel’s face. She doesn’t look at Mr. Jones over on the couch, probably confused out of his mind, or Anneliese or Daniel or Julie or anyone else.

Chiara just turns— and she runs— into the kitchen, out of the door, runs through the beach grass until she gets to the empty cabin at the end of the row— and she crawls into the dark, wet space under the porch and curls up into nothing.


	16. icarus ascending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But till you get there yourself  
> You never really know.  
> Where some have found their paradise  
> Others just come to harm  
> Oh, Amelia- it was just a false alarm."  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["Amelia"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gcTDoi9JQiY)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs for pretty much all of the issues discussed throughout the story so far, because they're laid out in pretty excruciating detail here, so feel free to ask me before reading if you're concerned. I also touch on physical self harm; it's not much, but keep that in mind.  
> where the last chapter was wildly mindblowing (especially for me as the writer!!), I'll be frank and say this chapter is just... difficult. it was difficult to write, it's difficult to read, it's turbulent beyond belief and entirely composed of a mental breakdown, which is why it's a bit short. I don't think I could bear writing any more than what's already here lol o_o
> 
> I will say that the song prefacing this chapter, Amelia, is my favorite song of all time. it truly has the most moving ambiance and the lyrics are especially poignant; I would highly suggest listening to it before/while reading. you will appreciate it!!
> 
> anyways, I should have a pretty substantial update this weekend! please enjoy :)

The first thing Chiara feels when she comes to, when that excruciating fog begins to lift away: dampness, soaking her completely from the waist down, the smell of dirt and rain and old wood swimming around her.

The second thing: dirt under her fingernails. Dirt under her palms.

The third thing: something in her pocket, incessant and unbearable, buzzing and buzzing. Her phone. Her head hurts. Her pants are wet. She fumbles around and pulls it out of her pocket.

As soon as she does, the light is unbearable— Chiara can’t see anything for a good thirty seconds, her head buzzing intensely, her phone buzzing right back, and when she finally blinks the bleariness out of her eyes a horrific kind of déjà vu grabs her right in the chest:

_Feli_ _  
_ _Missed Calls (46)_

_No. No, no no no what is happening. What’s happening._

And text messages, so many, over a hundred of them, messages from Isabel, Daniel, entirely too many from Feli, and she scrolls and scrolls with her dirt-caked fingers because—

_grandpa had another stroke_ _  
_ _he’s in critical condition_ _  
_ _please come to the hospital_ _  
_ _Chiara where are you_ _  
_ _please pick up the phone_ _  
_ _please pick up the phone_ _  
_ _he had another stroke Chiara_ _  
_ _I think he’s going to die_ _  
_ _please call me_ _  
_ _where are you_ _  
_ _where are you_ _  
_ _please call me_ _  
_ _call me right now_ _  
_ _I think he’s going to die_ _  
_ _Chiara I’m scared_ _  
_ _Chiara_ _  
_ _where are you_ _  
_ _Chiara_

The phone rings again. That same stupid, carefree, glowing picture of Feli stumbling drunk on the screen, the same stupid buzzing. She takes the call.

“Chiara,” he says. He’s crying. She can’t feel any part of her body. He’s crying right into the phone, and she can hear all the sniffling and the drippy nasality in his voice, and he takes a big deep breath but it doesn’t do shit to stop the gasping and the sobbing.

“Chiara,” he says. “Grandpa’s. He’s, he’s—”

_He’s in critical condition. He’s barely alive. He barely made it. Oh, Chiara, I was so worried, but he’s okay._

No, he isn’t. I know he’s dead.

“He’s dead,” she says.

Her voice is— strange. Echoing in her head, tinny and far-away. Dead. That doesn’t make any sense.

“Chiara, where are you,” Feli says, only his words trip up in the middle so it sounds like _wh-ere are you,_ and he chokes and sputters wetly. “Chiara. Chiara, where _are you._ Where are you.”

“You need to pick me up,” she says.

“Grandpa’s dead, Chiara. Where are you.”

“I’ll start walking. But you need to come pick me up.”

“Where are you. Where were you. _Chiara._ ”

She hangs up and shoves her phone back in her pocket. Then she crawls out from under the deck. Standing up in that sunlight is beyond unbearable, weak as it is. Everything goes black— her balance is gone, and for a brief moment she’s free-falling, weightless, floating above herself, and everything dances in streaks of dimming light behind her eyelids— and then she slams into the ground hard, and the numbness is so heavy it just feels like dropping an anvil on a dead piece of meat.

It doesn’t feel like she has a real body. It feels like she’s just meat.

Everything is impossible. Somewhere, she finds it in herself to writhe her legs, to stand upright on her feet, to start walking. The sun is ruthless. She slaps the excess dirt off her shirt and her slacks, and she moves.

Chiara, Grandpa’s. He’s, he’s— 

He’s dead.

Chiara, where are you.

_I was thinking. That’s where I was._

_I was thinking, I was hiding. Like an earthworm, digging deep into the ground, pink and fleshy when you lift up a rock and see it squirming there in the black dirt, little insects and spiders skittering away like scattered sparks. Surrounded by clods of soil. Five hearts, segmented. Slimy, writhing, curling up on itself. Disgusting._

_I was thinking, I wasn’t thinking at all. I didn’t get to see my grandfather on his deathbed. He died, up there in that old hospital room, with Feli watching over that skeletal, unconscious body, with me holed up under that porch and hyperventilating._

_He died, and he’s dead, and he was dying. And now he’s gone._

_What was I thinking about?_

_Julie, and Isabel. And everything else. My stupid self. The first time when I was fifteen, and every time after that, and every shred of promiscuity I encouraged because it made me think I could be normal. Every time I looked at myself in the mirror afterwards and started scratching. Everyone I hurt. Everyone I lied to. Julie’s pain. My pain. My fucked up liver, the cold cement under me, when I was just a kid getting beat on, when I was a full adult, and I was staring up at the sky with a concussion, on the verge of death._

_And now my grandfather crossed the threshold._

Cold cement is still under her feet— Chiara keeps walking. She takes the long way off the property, gets onto the highway, and she walks step by step, second by second. She thinks she’s going in the hospital’s direction. Her legs are laced in stiff pain, her whole body throbs. She doesn’t know. She keeps walking.

_It’s funny, it’s all funny, how much I lie— I can’t help it. About everything. I have to say it’s nothing, I have to say I’m fine, I don’t care. I have to construct that flimsy, useless, nuisance of a barrier. And now I can’t stop thinking about that barrier, how absent it is now in my head._

_Why am I suddenly speaking to myself? Face to face, truthfully, really speaking. Why?_

_I’m feeling a real feeling, a feeling that hasn’t been blocked off and repressed. I’m feeling nothing. I’m feeling like shit._

Chiara, where are you?

(I’m hiding under a porch, in the dirt, in the spiders. I’m ashamed. I’m afraid. My grandpa is dead.)

You need to pick me up.

_Feli, you said to call. You need to pick me up. I feel sick._

Oh, she really does feel sick, and she keeps walking and walking, and the sun keeps sinking in the sky. She can’t stop to retch, she can’t stop at all. The ocean really is beautiful, she finds herself thinking, staring at the roiling daubs of fog in the distance, wind swirling with the waves as she trudges on. She can’t stop. It feels like she’s going to die if she does.

_Like Lot’s wife. Like Eurydice. But I don’t even need to look back to freeze up forever, to have my soul snatched away._

It could have been five minutes of walking, or five hours. She can’t stop. She doesn’t stop, not until a white sedan screeches to a halt on the side of the road a little bit ahead of her, not until she opens the passenger side door to see Feli in the driver’s seat. He’s still crying. He’s white-knuckling the steering wheel, staring at Chiara with eyes that slash through her, and she gets in.

She folds her hands in her lap. Neither of them say a word.

He breathes deep, rattling, a sound that feels too familiar, and the car starts up again, and they drive.

“Feli,” she says.

Silence.

“I’m going to tell you things,” she continues. “I’m going to talk to you right now.”

_Because I want to. Because I can. Because the words are in my mouth, and I just need to let them out, and I don’t know what else I can possibly do. My grandpa is dead._

Silence.

“I can’t stop thinking about this. I have to ask you. Do you remember when we were fifteen, and I called you in the middle of the night? And you drove out to that one kid’s house, and we went home, and you let the parents scream at you for taking the car, and you never said anything to them. I was the one sneaking out. And it’s funny, because I still remember how I was sitting right there at the kitchen counter, but she hit you in the face with the rolling pin. You went to your room. I went to my room.”

She turns to look at him. Tears run down his cheeks in swelling rivers, tears he doesn’t bother wiping, tears that seem useless when all she wants is for them to blur his eyes and make them swerve off the road.

“Yeah,” he finally says. “I remember.”

“I couldn’t stop throwing up at that party,” she says, the words coming up for what must be the hundredth time, and they sting to say out loud. “I kept throwing up. I couldn’t feel my legs.”

“Okay,” Feli says.

“I can’t stop thinking about it. I had sex with someone,” she says. “For the first time, and I was making myself do it, and it was just happening. And it felt like—”

“Why,” Feli says, and he’s really crying now, and Chiara has no idea why they haven’t crashed into the ocean and drowned yet. “Why are you telling me this.”

“It felt like,” Chiara says, “I didn’t know why I was doing it. I didn’t want it. After it was done, I cried for the first time since I was a kid. And then I did it again, and again, and again and again and again and again and I fucking hate myself, so much, so much I could just grab the steering wheel right now and steer us both into hell. I couldn’t. I could do it. I wish I could do it. I want to do it. And I’m telling you, I’m speaking to you, because I don’t know if you’ll have the chance to hear it again.”

“I’m pulling over,” he says.

“Okay,” she says.

He pulls over into an empty outlook and cuts the engine. They’re silent. Chiara speaks.

“Feli, I’m a lesbian.”

“I know.”

“I couldn’t stop hurting myself. I don’t know if I can ever stop. I started renting a place with my boyfriend when I was twenty, I had a home, a job, a person who slept in the same bed, a place away from everything else. I had it so good. I fucked it up, I got dumped. I started shooting up. I kept hurting myself. I kept drinking, and then I had a chance to die, but I didn’t fucking die, and I moved in with you.”

“Chiara,” he starts, and he turns to look right at her with those rheumy eyes, and something fizzles up in the space between, an inkling of that magical twin connection Chiara has always heard of and never felt.

_Why not,_ she thinks. _Was it because of my mother? My father? Me? Feli always stood up for me at home. I always stood up for him outside. They loved me so much. They didn’t really love me at all. And now there’s that same gaping ocean between us, and Feli likes to reach out as if I’m ever going to reach back, as if I could bear the weight of that water. As if I could swim against that current of Mom and Dad and my worthless ego for my own brother._

“I was going to kill myself the day Grandpa had his stroke,” she says. “I taped myself up in the closet. I was going to do it.”

“Chiara,” he says again, and the crying begins anew, and he buries his face in his hands like a frightened child. “Chiara, I really can’t listen to this anymore.”

“Okay,” she says.

They sit there. Feli doesn’t stop crying, like his body is just full of tears begging to pop him open, and Chiara stares out at the crashing waves far below the road. They just keep becoming more beautiful with every passing second, she thinks— those lacy nets of seafoam brushing up against the shore are nothing short of sublime.

_I really like it here. I never realized that before. I want to stare at this for the rest of my life._

“Why are you covered in dirt,” Feli chokes out after a few minutes.

“I crawled under a porch. I was thinking.”

“You were running away.”

“I was running.”

“Chiara,” he says, for what seems to be the millionth time, and she slumps back against her seat.

“Yeah?”

“What are you trying to say?”

And she— doesn’t know what to say to that. She doesn’t know what she’s feeling right now. She feels nothing. She wants to say nothing. All the words that were trickling out minutes ago have mysteriously evaporated off, so she just says what she can.

“I can’t understand that Grandpa’s dead,” she says. Something opens, a tiny crack in the wall, words coming back, and she lets it out. “Grandpa’s dead. I didn’t get to see him.”

“You didn’t.”

“I was too busy having a mental breakdown to see his final moments. That’s kind of funny, huh. I was occupied with crawling in the mud, pretending I was a crushed insect, and he was taking his final breaths. He was probably so confused. He was probably in so much pain. You saw, you must have seen— what, was he conscious?”

A fresh round of sobbing. A fresh round of tears and hurt.

“I guess he wasn’t,” Chiara says.

Predictably: he keeps crying.

Predictably: she stares out the window, and she thinks about making a big leap.

“I’m horrible, huh. I’m such a piece of shit. He’s dead, and I couldn’t even be there. I let you take it alone. It’s _funny,_ that’s what I said, right? Right? Funny, right? You were probably crying your eyes out, like you are right now. And I was so, so busy. I should just start laughing.”

“Stop it,” Feli chokes out. “Please.”

Something sudden strikes—and she straightens up in her seat, and whirls toward him.

“You want to listen to something? Here. Okay. You know what I hate about you?”

His face is still hidden away in his hands. “What?”

“How you never really get angry at me. You’ve never done anything spiteful to me. You’ve just taken it. Any time I slip up, you make yourself the victim, you make me the savior, you refuse to acknowledge it. You take the responsibility. You do it every single time. You got hit, you got slapped and beaten, you sat through the screaming, the crying, you took my mistakes. I was killing myself, and you took the burden from me. I left Grandpa to die, and I visited once, and you took the burden. I couldn’t even help cover the rent half of the time. I kept you down, and you apologized. I taunt you and you say _stop please. Please._ Isn’t that despicable? Don’t you hate that? Don’t you hate your spinelessness?”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Chiara stares at him, at the simple watch on his wrist, the haphazardly ironed shirt, and she feels nothing less than fury.

“And now our grandfather is dead. And our parents will start trying to extort us again when they hear about it. And we lost our entire childhoods, and we lost our entire adulthoods too, you lost your dignity, I lost my dignity, I lost the only alright relationship I ever had, I lost the potential for a truly good relationship, I lost friends, I lost my life, I lost everything, I lost—”

She can’t bear to go on. She can’t bear to keep losing.

He doesn’t move.

“And you know, I missed you,” Chiara says. “I miss you right now. I stole your life from you. I watched you drain yourself. I watched you indulge my failures, and I watched you shift from bright to dead. I haven’t seen you laugh normally in so long. Every time you call me, I look at the picture I set as your profile picture— it’s from one of the nights we went drinking, around when I moved in— and you look so happy. You look young, and you look like you love life and it loves you right back. I always look at it for as long as I can. And now our grandpa is dead.”

Everything is all switched around and fucked up— Feli’s always talking. He’s always laughing, and chattering, and filling uncomfortable silences with noise and platitudes, but he’s dead silent now. He’s been mostly silent this whole time. It’s like she’s staring at a twisting, rippling statue, a shadowy mirror of the Thinker. He’s twenty-four, just like her. He looks so much older.

“You look older,” she says.

He drops his hands from his face and starts the car and gets back on the highway. And the expression on it is still silent, but it’s gnarled, twisted, torn apart with the rawest hurt, peeled apart and clenched together and hurting. It’s an expression that presses into Chiara’s eyes, an expression that refuses to leave. 

It’s pain. She doesn’t say anything for the rest of the drive, and when they get back to the house she heads to the room that looks the most like the guest room. She strips down completely. Then, she crawls into bed, and she closes her eyes, and it’s truly silent at last.

* * *

Chiara wakes up the next morning— and it’s not the Quill, and she’s completely naked like an infant, and everything is confusingly out of place until she realizes her grandfather is dead and her life is fucked again.

_Ah, all the puzzle pieces are starting to fit together._

_Isn’t it funny? It’s funny, right. How I experienced nothing short of total mental deterioration, and I love traumatizing everyone around me, and I couldn’t be any less surprised if I tried._

She gets up. She wraps herself completely in a sheet, kicking her dirt-stained clothes out of the way, and she stumbles out and into the cold hallway, pushing open random doors until she gets to Feli’s room. The bed is empty and neatly made, something she’s never seen from him before. The closet is sparse, half of his things still in a laid-open suitcase, a couple of sad clothes hangers sporting jackets and shirts. She snags a t-shirt and shorts and underwear— because fuck it, she’s shared worse with him back when they were kids— and she tosses the sheet back into her room before heading into the main area.

“Hi,” Feli says. He’s sitting on the floor in a similar outfit. His whole face is swollen, though he isn’t crying anymore, just holding a cup of water.

“I’m wearing your clothes,” she says.

“That’s fine.”

She sits at the dining table, facing away from him, staring at this quiet, empty house he must have suffered in, thinking about all her paychecks and overtime from the Quill going straight to Roberto, and she feels fine. It’s fine, until she lowers her head and lets her forehead thud on the table.

Then:

Then it’s not fine. And the wall crumbles to dust.

One tear. A few tears. A raging, roaring flood of them washing that dust out, and then sobs that electrocute her, she’s bawling like a baby, and her whole body quakes like it’s being kicked, like she’s a slug twitching under salt.

“I’m so sorry,” she finds herself saying, frantic garbled words making themselves known before she even understands them, and again, “I’m so sorry.”

She doesn’t know what else to say. She doesn’t know what she’s sorry for. Her legs flail helplessly under the table— like a toddler in a high chair, like a child having a tantrum, like someone set her on fire.

She can hear Feli standing up— she can feel him placing a soft hand on her shaking shoulder— she can hear him open the front door and leave. She rolls out of the chair and thuds onto the floor. Nothing makes sense. None of it makes sense. Her grandpa is dead and she never even knew him and it doesn’t make sense.

“I’m sorry,” she cries to an empty house. Shouting, yelling, screaming, making noise, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what to do anymore.”

The floor is freezing against her cheek, a little gritty under her palm, and everything feels like it was a million lifetimes ago, faded into scraps of nothing against the urgency of _now,_ the urgency of _here._ Her limbs don’t feel like her own. She can’t even call it grief at this point, as she stares down at herself, and she can’t _think,_ or feel, or know anything as her own, really—

The tears keep happening to her body, so she watches and they happen and she keeps _saying_ things she can’t understand, and she watches and it happens. The only coherent thought in her head:

_Why?_

Like a mantra, over and over, she keeps asking, because _why? Why me? Why him? Why us? Why?_

The word quickly loses all meaning, blending in with the nonsensical words coming out of her mouth. She keeps asking.

Why.

Again.

Why.

Why.

It sounds ridiculous. It doesn’t make any sense. It feels like she’s a baby, babbling back to people who she can’t understand either. She doesn’t stop saying it until the tears stop, until she crawls back into her body at last—

And the house is quiet again. So she leans back against the wall and closes her eyes and _feels._ And _thinks._ And _knows._

_Feli’s twisting, pained face. The gallons of tears he cried, that’s what I’m thinking of, and the echo of this stranger’s house. I don’t think I’m done with the mental deterioration. I don’t think I’ll be done with it for a while, honestly. I’m thinking of a lot of things. Like how happy I was with Julie back when she wasn’t Julie to me, and how tightly she held me. So, so securely, so safely. I was happy. I remember— making drinks together, and sitting in the park, with runners swishing past every minute or so. I never thought I could enjoy upstate New York that much. And that one bruschetta place, the neighboring bakery with the best challah. I kind of miss it. I drank a lot of iced Americanos. I always took the stairs up to our apartment, I did all that typing at work— I wonder if I still remember those Excel formulas? I miss that. I miss that life so much. It’s not mine anymore, but I miss it. I hope I never forget about that year. I’ve never been happier._

_Have I?_

_I can’t believe that was my life._

_I can’t believe this is my life now._

_I want to see Isabel again, I think. One day. Maybe in a million years, but I want to see her, and the way her hair catches the light, the muscles in her arms when she reaches up to tie it all back. I want to see her necklace catching the light, too, delicate against every line of her neck, and the curve of her waist and legs, and the way she always neatly crosses her ankles. I want to see her and have her see me right back— with those eyes, and I want to be close to her, and smell the worn sweetness of her perfume when she moves and shifts. I want to slice apples and fold batter, to lean up against her. When I’m not hurting, maybe. When I can feel something in my hands, my legs, my head, something beyond hurt. I don’t know if I can. I don’t want to have any hope for that._

_I just want to see my grandpa again._

Nothing feels… real. Nothing feels okay. Chiara opens her eyes and stares out at this stupid world she’s in, and she just wants to die, and she keeps fucking breathing.


	17. illumination, corruption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I looked at the morning  
> After being up all night;  
> I looked at my haggard face in the bathroom light;  
> I looked out the window  
> And I; I saw that ragged soul take flight."  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["Black Crow"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8WNskIdJVuc)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a bit late because I had to write a couple last-minute cover letters ughhh... but it's here now
> 
> CWs: some suicidal ideation but not an extreme amount. also, a bit more grief, a lot more repression, and the usual stuff that goes on :/ I hope you like this one though! it's a bit of an in-between kind of chapter but we'll definitely be neck-deep next chapter... yall ain't ready. anyways I really hope to get it out by thursday... really really hope... because I'm really gonna have distractions by then. really hope. so here's to hoping.
> 
> so so so much love to everyone who has left support <3 please enjoy :)

The next day is empty. So is the next, and the one after that.

Chiara doesn’t collapse again, doesn’t feel anything, really. She eats a lot of plain toast and plain food. She takes too many naps, and she keeps to herself. 

The house is quiet. 

Lately, she’s taken to pressing her face up against the window facing the meager yard, pressing her forehead against cool window panes and staring at wilting grass, staring at uneasy sunlight. Feli, meanwhile, sits in his room and cries at least a couple hours each day, usually in the middle of the day when Chiara’s trying to focus on the scratches in the fence. She doesn’t ask him about it. 

It’s not coping, not by a long shot. They keep doing it anyway.

And they keep doing it, until Feli taps her on the shoulder as she’s eating raw stalks of celery straight from the fridge like some demented little scavenger, and he’s in that zone between sheepish and tired like he always is these days.

“Hey,” he says, “Remember, the service is today.”

Chiara swallows the last of her celery. “The service…”

“Um. The funeral.”

“When—” She squints at him, because her brain has been trapped in nothing short of a foggy nothing for the last four days, devoid of sight and sound, because just the word  _ funeral _ sounds like babbling nonsense in her ears.

Feli just takes a deep breath. “Uh, I set it up pretty quickly. He wanted to be cremated directly anyway, so it’s not exactly some big open-casket affair. Just, you know.”

“No,” Chiara says. “I don’t.”

He chuckles nervously, his hands clutching each other, clearly tired, clearly worn down to the bone. Chiara has a vague sense of anger and self-hatred about it all. She has a vague sense of being tired, worn down to the bone. A funeral. She shuts the fridge, and she makes her way out of the kitchen.

“A-are you getting ready?” Feli stammers.

_ My grandpa’s funeral. A chance to say goodbye, or whatever the hell you do at funerals. Commiserate with everyone else. Watch someone wax on about their feelings and sit there awkwardly. Realize that Isabel, Daniel, Anneliese, probably Julie, they’re all going to be there, and if I go it’ll be the most humiliating fucking ordeal. If I go right now, and I’m completely not ready to face any of them, that’s the end of all those relationships. There goes Isabel, Daniel, even fucking Anneliese, there goes any chance to explain myself to Julie. There goes any presumption that I’m not a complete coward. _

_ And if I don’t go, I’m an irredeemable asshole who skipped her grandpa’s funeral to sulk in her own stupid, self-serving angst. There goes any presumption that I’m not a complete coward. _

She goes back into the guest room that’s hers now, and she shuts the door and locks it. Then she drags the stumpy sofa in front of the door, locking the windows and drawing down blinds, and she turns off all the lights and sits in bed in that complete darkness.

“Chiara,” Feli calls after a few minutes. “Make sure you’re ready, okay? We have to leave at two.”

She doesn’t respond, like a petulant child giving a parent the silent treatment, and she leans back into bed so she’s staring up at nothing but blank darkness.

_ I thought this would be over. I thought I’d be feeling a little better, I thought I’d be able to pull myself up by my goddamn bootstraps and fix everything, but I just want to end my life. I just want to crawl into a hole and let it all crush me— to feel every responsibility and expectation and obligation to clear my own name suffocate me, to breathe in that soil. I’m in a hole right now. The only thing left to do is die. _

Chiara feels so weak. So frail, delicate, in the same way Feli’s emotions are always waving in the wind, out in the open, just waiting to be set aflame. She considers tying up her bedsheets and leaving everything. She considers it, though she can’t even lift a finger to scratch her leg at this point.

A tiny, reflexive tear, dropping from a dry eye, comes trickling down. She can’t wipe it.

_ All of that, and I’m back at the beginning again. _

She can’t even make herself breathe.

“Hey, are you ready?” Feli’s voice asks.

_ Has it already been that long? _

She doesn’t answer.

“Chiara?” he says, and again, and again, more frantic, until he’s pounding on her door, until he’s jiggling the handle back and forth, and she doesn’t answer.

_ He probably thinks I already killed myself. He’ll probably call the police. _

“Chiara,” he bawls, and oh, he’s starting to cry again, “please. You don’t have to go. You don’t have to do anything. Just answer me.”

She doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t answer.

“Chiara—”

“Yes!” she shrieks at last, and he stops yelling and making noise, and soon the front door opens and closes again, and she’s alone, and she shoves the couch away from the door and unlocks it. Then she goes back to sleep.

* * *

Chiara wakes up to a head fuzzy with exhaustion, a bright light beaming down on her, and the smell of food. Starch, tomatoes…

Pasta. For the briefest of moments— she sits up, and she relishes in the feeling of being awake and real and the thought of a hot meal in her stomach.

“You’re up,” Feli says. She whirls over to see him settled into that crooked chair, a couple of bowls in hand.

“What are you doing here,” she says, and her voice is harsh, rasping and ringing sorely in the air.

He shrugs with that uneasy little smile. “I went to the service. I came home. I cooked you something. If that’s okay.”

And he hands her a steaming plate of penne tossed in what looks like a creamy tomato sauce and cooked-down mushrooms and bacon, sprinkled with a healthy amount of parsley and Parmesan shavings. Chiara takes it mutely, takes the offered fork, stares and soaks up that earthy warmth, the savory smell of bacon, rich and filling.

She stabs a noodle and makes vigorous eye contact with the plate.

“Thanks,” she says. And then she eats.

There are at least three different kinds of mushrooms— they’re all perfect, succulent, browned and flavorful— and they complement the pasta in that satisfying way that only food can. The bacon adds a salty bite, and the tomatoes are fruity and fresh. Each bite is rich and filling— it’s a good meal. 

Somehow, it’s not at all the hot meal she needed, because it tastes less like food and more like dirt. It’s delicious, but it’s also about as appetizing as a bowl of pig slop. 

Chiara has never disliked Feli’s cooking. This is no exception. She also can’t stand the thought of swallowing it all down.

Still, she’s suddenly ravenous, like all of that plain toast is finally catching up and her stomach is screaming for more and for better, and before she knows it she plunks the empty plate on the nightstand.

“Did you like it?” Feli asks.

_ Not really, _ Chiara wants to say.  _ Made me kind of sick. But I ate it anyway. _

The only thing stopping her from saying exactly that is how often she finds herself stricken with just how tired he looks— like an exhausted preschool teacher. Like an overworked salaryman. Like a million other tired, worn out, hopeless, toiling adults she’s met, like her own tired adult self.

“Yeah, I liked it,” she mutters.

He takes a bite and smiles down at his bowl with some distant awkwardness. “Oh, good. I’m glad.”

“Who was at the service?”

The words come out of her, though she doesn’t really want to know. _ I’m just sorry for worrying you. _

He chews thoughtfully, and at some point his voice slips from that dragging exhaustion to his usual aimless rambling.

“Oh, uh, your coworkers. And some other people I didn’t know. Some people from town, a couple of the people who were friends with him… see, I don’t know, it was really small? People showed up, they looked around his urn, talked to each other, and left. But I think that’s just because it was so short-notice, I mean, he has so many friends all over the place. Sorry, uh, had. They probably just couldn’t make it. He…”

He trails off, and his expression is back to something more contemplative, laying itself open and curious.

“Oh, that’s cool,” Chiara says.

It doesn’t sound very cool. She doesn’t know why she keeps saying this shit.  _ I’m just sorry I said all those things to you. _

“It was alright. I was mostly thinking of where to, uh, scatter him. Can’t actually think about  _ him _ or I’ll get too upset, ha. Or we could keep him, or… well, I think he’d like being scattered. Everywhere. Anywhere. That sounds so weird, right?”

“Yeah, it does.”

Actually, it’s a pretty absurd thought. The man who smiled down at her from the top of the trail, who smiled up at her from his hospital bed, reduced to smearing ash that blows away on the slightest wind. It really is… in character, she supposes. She can’t imagine Roberto looking forward to moldering away in an overpriced coffin.

Mostly, Chiara settles deeper into herself, and she watches and listens. Their grandpa is dead. They’re left here, adrift, alone.  _ I just want you to be happy. I don’t want you to be tired anymore. _

Feli scratches his neck absentmindedly. “I don’t know, maybe we can drive places and give him a good... spreading around?”

“Ha. As if he wasn’t already scattered enough.”

They’re talking, and it’s normal for once, and there’s no crying. And all she can think about is  _ I’m sorry for being the person who hurt you. _

Feli laughs unaware, taking another bite of his pasta and leaning back into his seat. “I think he’d be okay with us keeping a little bit. Or keeping some of… him… at the Quill.”

“Probably.”

_ You laughed. I hope you can keep laughing. _

“When are you planning on going back, anyway?”

“Never.”

“Wh— wait, why not? I thought you liked it there?” His voice pitches up a little, eyebrows knitting together.

Chiara debates on lying— she gives up against the truth. “What do you think? I fucked up, as always.”

“Did you, uh…”

And she has to wince at that, knowing exactly what he means. “No, I wasn’t violent. Or angry.”

“Oh! Okay. Okay, that’s good— I mean, well. Sorry. Really, what happened?” He takes a final bite and stacks his bowl on hers, maintaining that concern-laced curiosity in his eyes, a curiosity that inflames her guilt so much she can’t even shrug him off.

“I’ll explain it to you later,” she finally says. “But I can’t go back.”

“Are you sure?”

_ No. Maybe. Yes. I might be able to. I can’t. _

Chiara swallows hard. “Yes. No, I don’t know.”

“You— you can take time off, you’re allowed, whatever happened, I’m sure they’ll let it go. They all really like you.”

“Not anymore,” she mutters. “I might as well have killed their parents.”

Feli visibly recoils from what must be a completely absurd and nonsensical statement to him. “That’s—”

“Trust me on this one. And I  _ really  _ can’t go back for another week anyway,” she grumbles.

His concern deepens. “Well, of course, I mean, this whole…  _ thing _ just happened? Grandpa just— You couldn’t even make it to the funeral service, I mean…”

Chiara waves an awkward hand at him, as if she’s swatting at flies, buzzing words swarming her. “No, I can work. I’m fine. It’s just that I already fucked up that wedding twice.”

He recoils for the millionth time at that. “Wedding?”

_ Jesus Christ. Yes, a wedding. I really outdid myself on this one.  _ “I told you, I’ll explain later.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

Feli leans all the way back on the sofa, so he’s stretched out like a cat and staring up at the ceiling, and he heaves a sigh that’s so weighty it feels like it’s smacking Chiara in the face.

“Chiara,” he says, and his voice is like a child’s, “You know, uh, the other day. In the car. I just wanted to—”

“I’m sorry,” she immediately blurts.

It’s completely silent: she’s not sure if she’s embarrassed about picking up some of his sappiness, or just because she’s apologizing for anything, or if he’s shocked or irritated or grateful when he snaps back down to look at her, but they just sit and stare wide-eyed for entirely too long.

“I just mean—” Chiara says.

“You don’t—” Feli says, at the same time, and they’re back to the staring contest.

And she has to take a deep breath, and swallow down her stupid ego, her stupid pride, swallow down her bitterness and hurt. There’s nowhere else she can put it right now. She’s been throwing tantrums for years. She can’t handle anything. Her brother is hurting just as much, and he made her picky petulant self a plate of food, and he has  _ never _ not been around.  _ Never— _ the word is mind-boggling, and it’s true. And the truth is:

_ I kept doing what I was doing, because I didn’t want to matter, because I didn’t want any of it to matter. I’m also a real human being. I’m doing real human things, with effects on real humans. And the least he deserves is an apology. _

“The least you deserve,” she says, “is an apology. And I should be listening to  _ you.  _ Whatever fucked-up shit I did, it doesn’t… I don’t know.”

“Excuse anything,” he murmurs, so soft it’s almost inaudible. “It doesn’t excuse anything. I know. I just wanted to do what I could.”

“That’s not fair.”

Feli shrugs. They’re silent again, but this time he tilts down and stares into his lap.

“About the other day,” he says after a few minutes of that burning quiet, a rueful smile flitting across his face, hands knotting together. “I’m sorry I can’t listen to you about those things. I just don’t think I can hear it, you know? I just can’t. All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happier, feel better, I don’t know, it’s selfish, it’s not great— I just can’t. And I especially couldn’t take it on top of everything else, I…”

He looks up at her with that dumb little smile, that horribly painful and pitiful smile that pierces Chiara’s whole soul, and she feels nothing but the acute throb of where her ego used to be.

“It’s not your fault,” she says. Because it’s not. And the real kicker: “I just need to go to therapy.”

He raises his eyebrows, and he laughs— incredulous, almost giggling, as if it’s a joke he doesn’t really understand— which is valid, because Chiara can’t even tell if she’s joking or not.

“You know what,” he says. “Me too. Don’t we all.”

It’s like they’re speaking on some higher level. It’s like she’s really saying  _ here is my pain and I’m sorry for the pain I caused you, _ and he’s responding with  _ I see you and your pain and we will be okay,  _ and it hurts her heart so much it’s hard to breathe. It’s so close. There’s still an ocean, but it’s on pause and frozen over, tenuous and webbed in cracks. Each step is hesitant— it feels good, though, and the ground under her is certain enough to stop over for now.

So Chiara shrugs it all off, and that moment of closeness flashes by as quickly as it appeared.

“Hell, I just need a fucking lobotomy,” she sighs. “I’m tired.”

It’s clearly a joke. It’s a little true. Feli cringes anyway, but he cracks a smile that’s significantly less horrible and shattered, significantly less  _ grief is crippling me and if I think about it I’ll collapse.  _ She lets herself shed a drop of guilt. They carry on.

* * *

The next day— Chiara is back to staring outside with her forehead pressed up against cool glass when the calls start. She hasn’t plugged in her phone since that day at the Quill, leaving it dead and dark on the nightstand, so the ringing is clearly from Feli’s phone on the dining table, a quiet and inoffensive chiming filling the air.

_ Of course he forgot his phone at home. If he gets into a crazy accident on the way back from the store, I’ll end him. _

She ignores the first few minutes of ringing and chiming. The parents have taught her well, and frankly, she has no interest picking up a call for Feli— frankly, her head is buzzing too loudly to hear much of anything. It’s only on what must be the eighth call that she hauls herself up to check.

It’s not an unknown number. It’s not an ex, or a friend, or anyone else.

It’s Daniel.

The basic, blank letters spelling out his name seem to stare right into her. She doesn’t want to pick up, not at all, not one bit, and she puts the phone down.

Then she sits, picks it right back up, and swipes to accept the call.

“Feli, you need to put Chiara on the phone. Now,” that familiar voice immediately says into her ear— it really is Daniel, putting on a stern voice, the kind of voice he’d use for guests breaking the noise curfew.

Chiara feels like a reprimanded child. Speaking in that moment feels impossible— she can’t differentiate between the fear, the anxiety, the anticipation, the curiosity, all of it blurring into one huge mass of  _ I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t and I’m damned if I do nothing, if I try. _

“Feli,” Daniel’s voice barks again, “hello? Are you there? Can y—”

“It’s me,” Chiara says shortly.

And Daniel—

He doesn’t respond immediately, doesn’t yell, just sighs, and that single sigh sounds impossibly  _ relieved, _ a sound that makes every nerve in her body freeze.

_ What the fuck. _

“Thank God,” he says, his voice suddenly going soft. “I was so worried, your phone was going straight to voicemail, are you okay, are you safe?”

“I—”

_ I’m literally speechless. I’m so confused. What the hell is happening. _

“What the fuck,” she says, finding herself sinking into the chair, and again, “what the fuck?”

“I’m just glad to hear from you,” Daniel says. “Really, how are you—”

“Look,” she cuts in, “I don’t work there anymore. So I don’t know why the hell you’re calling.”

“What…” he trails off, and a shaky silence sneaks between them, a silence that feels genuinely uncomfortable beyond description. She suddenly feels much less brazen and much more embarrassed, squirming, hands full of tremors, waiting for him to let go and hang up.

“Chiara,” Daniel’s voice says at last. “We’re friends, and something terrible just happened to you. I haven’t heard from you in days. You weren’t even at the service, I don’t know, I just wanted to make sure you’re alive. That’s why I’m calling.”

“How’s the wedding planning,” she says instead.

“Don’t derail the conversation. I’m asking about you, you know.”

“How’s. The wedding.”

He sighs deep and tired. “It’s fine. Anna and I are… settled, for the most part, Isabel isn’t exactly much help, but I can’t blame her. We’re doing our best with the new guy.”

_ Isabel— slacking. _ Chiara winces, because  _ I can’t blame her, _ because she doesn’t even want to think about any of it, but she’s thinking anyway. __

_ She definitely knows I’m a complete fucking liar, doesn’t she. She laid out all her shit for my dumbass, and then reality gave her a nice slap in the face. I can’t even imagine—  _

_ Imagine getting cheated on, and feeling completely destroyed over it, and then you hit on an undeserving idiot who  _ also  _ happens to have done that exact thing to your best friend. Trusting someone, putting any fucking stock in my brand of complete garbage, getting burned beyond belief.  _

_ Imagine being Isabel. Imagine it. I can’t. _

“Isabel taking time off isn’t because of you, by the way,” Daniel says blandly.

“That’s the fakest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“No, I’m serious. She’s just spending a lot of time with Julie and Marianne.”

_ Julie. _ “I fucking hate this,” Chiara mutters, more on reflex than anything, though it’s the honest truth.

“...What?”

“Everything? My stupid idiot self? What the hell do you think?”

Daniel sighs that same infuriatingly heavy sigh, rustling and shifting on the other end. “If you’re talking about what happened in the past with Julie, yeah, it was shitty. You clearly feel like shit about it. She’s also a lot better than she’s ever been. Just talk to her, honestly, and since you apparently know her— well, you know she doesn’t hold grudges like that. She’s not particularly hung up on it nowadays, I don’t think it’ll be a big deal. You know—”

“I don’t  _ know _ her. You said it yourself, she’s better. Different. It’s been a while.”

_ I can’t do that. I would rather die. I would rather die than do that to her again, I don’t know her, I can’t. _

“Come on,” he mutters, “don’t be pedantic about it.”

“I’m not. It’s the truth.”

“Listen, Chiara, I just really—”

He’s abruptly cut off by a sharp rustling noise, as if he dropped his phone, followed by some blurry thudding and tumbling.

_ Can I hang up now? Can I please? _

Chiara’s getting ready to do just that when there’s more loud scraping, and in the moment before she can end the call Anneliese’s voice blares through her speakers.

“Chiara!” she barks.

_ Oh, fuck everything. _

“Listen,” Anneliese says. “You better still be there, or we’ll really have a problem.”

“What,” Chiara dryly says.

“Good. Don’t hang up. If you do, I’ll drive over there myself.”

Knowing Anneliese, she’s dead serious.  _ And the absolute last thing I want to do, even before talking to fucking Julie again, is looking Anneliese in the face. _

Daniel’s voice echoes faintly in the back— Chiara can’t quite make out what he’s saying, but it sounds annoyed and frantic and insistent, and Anneliese seems to ignore it entirely.

“Anyways,” she says, clearing her throat sternly.

_ Here we fucking go. _

“Here’s the damn thing,” she says. “I’m relieved you’re safe. And I’m sorry about Roberto, my own grief has been impossible and I can’t imagine yours, so I respect you taking as much time as you need.”

Chiara clears her throat. “I— you what.”

Anneliese steamrolls right over it. “ _ That said. _ You’re a goddamn coward. And I know you tell yourself that garbage all the time, but I don’t care about what you have to say right now. You’re a coward. And you told me yourself, you told me to  _ suck it up, _ you told me to accept what I had to accept and to move on, and if you can’t even listen to yourself—”

Daniel’s distant voice raises to a yell: “Anna, that’s  _ enough— _ ” he says, but there’s another few seconds of scuffling and Anneliese clears her throat again.

“You  _ better _ be listening, Chiara, you hear me?” she says.

And—

Yes, Chiara’s listening. Yes, she wants to die, because she’s listening, and Anneliese is right, because her grandpa is dead but _I’m still a fucking hypocrite._ _How annoying must this be for both of them? How annoying is this for me right now?_

“This is so ridiculous,” Anneliese scoffs, and it really is the most fucked kind of role reversal, isn’t it— “We were being stupid and you yelled at us, and now you’re being stupid and we’re yelling at you, and it’s all about the same damn person. Give that one a couple seconds of thought, if you can.”

“Oh, I am,” Chiara snaps back, and her blood rises to a boil, but the lines are so blurry between irritation at Anneliese and at herself that it feels like it’s all boiling off to nothing.

“Good to hear,” Anneliese says frostily. “They’ve already had to attend a funeral while preparing to get married. I don’t think a big prolonged fuss over  _ you _ and something that happened when you were both young and stupid is a goal for their wedding, either. Meanwhile I haven’t seen Isabel in two days and the reception is in  _ two days  _ and we have twenty goddamn Dobos tortes to make—”

Chiara’s heart stutters with adrenaline, and she coughs and chokes, and she can’t help hissing, “What, are you saying it’s all Roberto’s fault? Are you saying it’s my fault?”

“You  _ know _ I’m not saying that!” Anneliese cries. “You  _ know _ I’m—”

“Well, it sure sounds a lot li—”

“That’s enough!” Daniel’s voice roars, and there’s another burst of scuffling as he presumably snatches the phone back, another series of thuds Chiara can’t place at all, and then he finally wrestles himself back on the line.

“Chiara,” he says, and his voice is wooden and stiff. “I’m glad you’re okay. And you can call me whenever you need to talk. I’m going to hang up now.”

“No you’re  _ n— _ ” Anneliese yells, but her voice is cut off mid-word and Chiara’s left holding Feli’s silent phone in one hand, gripping at her knee with the other, and her thoughts are just…

Empty. Violent. Swirling. Full of thoughts of her grandpa’s body burning slowly, flesh melting off into ash, bones crumbling, a silent and gloomy service. A wedding overshadowed by a dead man, twenty goddamn Dobos tortes. All those young and stupid things coming back to bite, hard.  _ I figured out my sexuality and God decided to fuck it all up, I realized why I did the things I did and God decided to throw them in my face, I had a maybe-thing going on with someone and God decided to spit on her too. _

_ Why is this all so stupid? Why now? Why me? Why? _

She slams the phone on the table where it was, and she lets out a noise that sounds exactly like the unfurling fury in her chest, and the front door rattles open.

“What was that?” Feli says, stepping in with wide eyes.

Chiara blinks, and she glances down at her lap. “Oh. Nothing.”

“I went shopping,” he says, holding up the canvas tote in his left hand, smiling lightly. “I’m making cacciatore, if that’s okay?”

“No,” she blurts, and she finds herself stumbling to her feet. “I’ll cook it.”

They stare at each other— her swaying unsteadily, messy and unhinged, him withdrawn and compressed— before his smile grows and he sets the bag down.

“Okay, go ahead,” he says. And he’s really smiling now, one of those smiles she hasn’t seen in forever, a smile that’s like a floodlight, a smile that reminds her of several years ago in upstate New York, last year in Richmond, two weeks ago on the porch during golden hour. Something crumples in her. It feels good. It feels bitter. She grabs the tote and sweeps past him into the kitchen.

_ Enough of that. I’ve had enough for a lifetime. For now, food. _

Food indeed. Cacciatore is easy enough, she thinks. It’s just braised chicken and vegetables, it takes about an hour if you take a few shortcuts, and it’s always good on polenta. Hell, she and Isabel had just made a big pot of it a few weeks ago—

Her heart stops, but she breathes, and she swallows it down.

_ No. Not now. Food first. _

Food first: so Chiara boils up a pot of water, dropping in a handful of polenta and whisking until it’s a little thicker. Then she cuts up bell pepper and onion into thin slices, mushrooms into chunks, mincing garlic as fine as she can. It’s not too hard to make quick work of a pound of raw chicken legs— drumsticks, thighs, separated and seasoned with salt and pepper, and she sears them in batches, taking them out to pile on a plate when they’re browned and sizzling. Next are the vegetables, sautéed and stirred until tender. It’s meditative. She cooks in silence. There’s nothing there except for the hissing, bubbling, careful stirring and flipping, the swift rasp of a knife cutting and the feeling of salt between her fingers. Every so often, she gives the pot of polenta a good stir. Her feet freeze to the floor— her arms never stop moving.

The vegetables are looking alright, so she reaches for a half-finished bottle of Pinot Grigio to deglaze with, pouring in a generous half-cup and watching as it steams up and bubbles.

There’s something so indescribably delicious about cooking with alcohol— she learned her lesson about drinking it a long time ago, but nothing will ever match the smell and taste of food and seared-off alcohol. Penne alla vodka goes from creamy and rich to bright, fruity, biting, mouthwatering. A good pan sauce goes from light and oily to impossibly savory, impossibly deep with that indiscernible  _ taste  _ that makes any steak or pork chop suddenly five-star. Even something like bananas foster, flambéed and mellow with rum— it’s all delicious. Just the thought makes her mouth water.

This chicken cacciatore is no exception, and the dry acidity of the wine yields into something complex and gorgeous as she simmers it with crushed tomatoes and bay leaves. In goes the chicken. In goes the whole pot into the oven, and she sets the oven timer for half an hour before going to the living room to sit and stare at the carpet, and she holds herself in that meditative state until her body feels like it’s fusing to the couch under it.

“It smells really good,” someone says at some point— Feli’s peeking into the living room, his face light and guileless, and she nods.

“Do you want me to set the table?” he says.

She nods again. He dips into the kitchen, forks and plates clattering, and she watches as he frowns down at the polenta he’s stirring, as he crouches down to glance into the oven.

“Oh, hey,” he says, “did you mince the parsley?”

That little crumpled thing in her chest collapses even more, tight and stiff and claustrophobic, and something bulges in her throat.

“No,” she says. “You can do it.”

“Great! Okay,” he says, and he pulls out a cutting board and gets to work, and the whole house seems to burst with the savory smell of chicken and the brisk chop-chop-chop of his knife in that moment.

_ He remembered the parsley. Can’t forget about the parsley. _

_ What’s your thing with parsley? _ Isabel had asked at one point.

_ I don’t know, _ Chiara had responded.  _ It just makes everything better. It’s sweet, but it’s not too sweet, not really earthy, it’s just… so light, and fragrant, and it makes everything that much better. It’s just a little extra that brings things up from good to great. Besides, anything with starches or tomatoes just doesn’t taste complete without it. _

_ Huh, _ Isabel said, then she laughed, but it wasn’t in a bad way— it was just happy.  _ I get that. No, really, I think you’re totally right. Here, if you could also mince the garlic… _

The oven timer beeps, and Chiara stays there staring at the carpet as Feli fumbles with what sounds like drawers and cupboards and the oven door. When she glances up, he’s setting the pot of chicken down on the dining table, fiddling with the pot of polenta and a big spoon.

“What are you doing,” she says.

“Oh, I’m plating,” he mumbles back, clearly concentrating and giving it his all— she can’t help snorting at that.

“You’re  _ plating— _ why the hell would you be plating?”

He looks up, eyes wide and sheepish. “Oh, I, uh…”

“It’s just us, Feli,” she says, and she tries to sigh exasperatedly, though it comes out more like a fond little huff than anything. “You don’t need to do that. Let’s just eat.”

“I just want it to look nice for you, okay,” he says, a little more defensive before he turns back to the plate and spoon.

She scoffs. “Why would you want to do that? I…”

And Chiara gets to her feet, wobbly and stiff like a child learning how to walk, and she peers over at the table. He really is  _ plating, _ she thinks, and it really does look nice. Each plate has a smooth circle of polenta, pooled in the red-orange sauce from the chicken, with a drumstick and a thigh and the vegetables tucked across and on the side. Tiny streaks of minced parsley scatter both plates with green— and one of them has a couple of curly half-sprigs garnishing it.

Feli nudges a slice of bell pepper into the right spot with a delicate frown that flashes into a grin when he glances up. “Extra parsley?”

Chiara wants to cry so, so badly in that moment, some primal  _ need _ overwhelming her, but the tears refuse to gather behind her eyes, much less spill out. So she pulls out her chair, and she sits in front of that plate with the extra parsley, the elegant spray of green reminiscent of wispy baby’s-breath in a bouquet. She straightens her fork and knife. She waits for him to take a seat, she waits for him to take the first bite, and she follows.

“Everything okay?” Feli asks.

Creamy, smooth grains of polenta, that wine-delicious sauce that’s savory with the simple pleasures of food, tender chicken and tender mushrooms and bell peppers—

And the light, fresh sweetness of parsley. Chiara swallows what must be her fifth or sixth bite.

“It’s good,” she says. “And it looks good. Thank you.”

He grins. “It’s the least I could do.”

She takes another bite, and she chews and swallows and leans back.

“Feli,” she says, “I’m going back to the Quill.”

He doesn’t even say anything at first, just snaps up with bulging eyes, hair falling in his face.  _ You what?  _ his expression says.

“You what?” he finally stammers.

“Yeah,” Chiara says. “They have twenty goddamn Dobos tortes to make.”

She eats her food, and she thinks about her grandpa, and it’s hard to swallow.


	18. look so critical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Blackness everywhere and little lights shine  
> Oh blackness, blackness, dragging me down  
> Come on, light the candle in this poor heart of mine."  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["This Flight Tonight"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rxs8wz4Vb9w)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi I'm back and I hope you like this chapter!! I really liked writing it and this+the next one... whew it's a good time :)) we are gearing up on the end and I'm so happy/grateful.
> 
> CWs: grief, some mentions of themes like sexuality/mental illness that we've touched on before.
> 
> this is a very short lil note because I'm really just trying to get this out asap!! so please enjoy :)

It’s about eight when Chiara finishes eating and tidying and doing whatever else she has left to do around the house. Then she plugs in her phone, and crawls into bed, and waits for it to turn on.

Immediately: she marks every message from Isabel and Feli and anyone else as read, so she doesn’t have the temptation to read them later. Next, she pulls up Anneliese’s number and dials it, lying there with her heart in her throat.

She turns to stare outside as the phone rings. _This isn’t helping._ It’s still bright outside, and the sun strikes each tree and roof and cloud beautifully— it’s all golden, perfect, almost nostalgic, bringing her head back to days in the sun and long drives, and her heart disintegrates into fragments the longer she looks, the longer she basks in that magic-tinted light.

Who feels sad about a sunny day? _Me, I guess._

“Hello?” Anneliese’s voice says. It’s curiously devoid of the rage and frustration from a few hours ago, all of it replaced by quiet neutrality, by that level-headedness Anneliese seems to put on so naturally.

“Yeah,” Chiara says, already tensing up in anticipation. “It’s me. I’m coming back. I’ll take care of everything, so the rest of you take the night off.”

Anneliese coughs. “Ahem, excuse me, the _wedding—_ ”

“Is tomorrow, yes. I just realized. And I know you’ve been working overtime and you’ve been understaffed with the influx of guests. So I’ll take care of all the kitchen prep. Take the night off, and I’ll call the new guy, tell him to come back in a couple weeks.”

Anneliese doesn’t respond for a few frozen seconds, a few seconds where Chiara has a sinking feeling she’s overstepped horribly, or maybe Anneliese just hung up on her right then and there for _daring_ to say something like that, and she lies there silent and gripped by rigid paralysis.

“You don’t have to do that,” Anneliese says at last. “You know that’s not what I meant when I was talking to you, right.”

“Well, I’m going to talk to Julie too,” Chiara says, although the words send freezing spasms of terror leaping through her. “I’m going to figure my shit out. And I’m going to pull my weight.”

Anneliese scoffs, but it’s not disrespectful, just…

Relieved. Impressed.

“Good,” she says. “That’s really good to hear. I’ll see you, then.”

“Okay,” Chiara says. “Lay out all the materials for me, write me a note, then you can clock out. Then go to bed.”

“Ha. You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Chiara snorts. “Sure. Get to it.”

And the line goes silent, so she rolls over to dial the next number.

“Hello?” Mr. Jones says.

She clears her throat. “This is Chiara Vargas, I’m the manager at the Quill.”

“Oh,” he says, “oh, uh, actually, I have a couple of questions for you, firstly, I’d really like to know what exactly the timeline for the next couple weeks is going to be?”

“Actually, I called to tell you to take the next week or two off,” she says. “I’ll take care of the rest. We can cover the extended accommodation, but there are some personal matters that need to be resolved at the moment, so don’t worry about working for now. I’ll contact you when your training period starts again.”

“Personal matters,” he echoes back faintly. “Huh. I see.”

_No, you better not be seeing jack shit,_ she thinks.

“Anyways!” he says, clearing his throat, his voice slipping into something rounder, friendlier. “Hey, good to hear everything’s okay! Thanks for letting me know, just know I’m up to come back whenever.”

“Alright,” she says. “I’ll keep in touch, Mr. Jones.”

He snorts. “You definitely don’t have to call me _that._ Just Al is fine, thank you.”

“Al, then. Have a good night.”

“Awesome! You too, Chiara!”

She hangs up, and sighs, and tries to let the plasticky customer-service voice trickle out and away, to slip back into her normal self and get to work.

“Fuck,” she mutters.

Then, again, out loud as clear as she can: “Fuck, I’m doing it. I’m doing it. I’m going to get up out of my bed.”

She sits up, planting her feet on the floor.

“Then I’m going to get dressed.”

She stands, shrugging off Feli’s hoodie and slipping on Feli’s button up shirt and his trousers and his jacket. She puts on the pair of earrings she was wearing the day she walked out, dangly gold wire teardrops about the size of her fingernail, and she combs through her hair with shaking fingers.

“I’m going to get my shoes and the keys to the car, and then I’m going to drive to the Quill.”

So she snags her boots, and she leaves her room and knocks on Feli’s door.

“Yeah?” he calls.

“Where are the car keys,” she says. “I’m going to the Quill.”

There’s a lot of thumping, stumbling, as if he’s falling out of bed and crawling to the door, and she waits patiently as it swings open and he stares at her with pure incredulity on his face.

“Chiara, it’s getting _dark,_ are you serious?”

“I’m going to the Quill,” she repeats. “I’m going to go work. There’s a wedding tomorrow.”

His jaw drops, and he blinks, and Chiara steels herself upright, and she welds herself firm in her conviction. I’m going to the Quill. I’m going to the Quill.

_If I don’t go now, I’ll never go._

Feli seems to catch a hint of that, somewhere across her face or in her eyes, and he looks down and sighs.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay. Here.”

He grabs the keys on the nightstand, and when he looks up to hand them to her, there’s a tear tracking down his face, and the corner of his mouth quivers as if it’s rippling, splashing water. For once, it doesn’t seem like he’s crying because he’s sad. He’s just…

“Why are you crying?” Chiara says.

“I don’t know,” he blubbers. Another tear slips down his cheek. “Just be careful when you drive, okay? I’m really worried. I just want you to be okay. I’m happy, I don’t know.”

She doesn’t think she can reach out and touch him yet, reach out and show the bare minimum of comfort or empathy or anything else, so she just puts the keys and her hands in her pockets, straightens herself as much as she can.

“I’ll be fine,” she says. “I just need to do what I need to do.”

“Okay,” he says.

“I’m going now.”

“I love you, Chiara.”

“Okay.”

She walks to the door, slipping on the boots as she does, and she leaves and shuts the door behind her. Outside, the sun is just starting to set. That raking golden light is less brilliant now, shifting dimly, though it still glows against the wood of the porch, the individual blades of grass, the rough concrete sidewalk and road.

Some intense, unknown déjà vu swallows her whole again. She gets in the car and starts it and drives.

* * *

The drive itself isn’t too bad— the brakes are a little touchy, but Chiara’s never been the most careful driver to begin with, and she spends most of the drive alone on the road with the radio turned off, her full focus on the press of her feet against the pedals and her hands on the wheel.

If she tries hard enough, she can pretend she’s a lone road-tripper, speeding up the coast all the way to Alaska, or maybe just to Canada. Maybe she only drives at night, or maybe she’s going to pull over at some small motel or inn soon. Maybe she’ll pull up to a little bed and breakfast, a neat row of cabins, a warm lodge and a warm bed. A warm meal. A warm person.

It feels like she’s been driving for hours, for only a few minutes, when she takes the turn-off and passes the sign proclaiming _Quill Creek Inn,_ barely lit up by that falling sunset.

She veers into the main parking lot, into one of the few empty spaces. A couple of lights in the lodge are on. She sits there in that unfamiliar car, staring at that familiar building, the window she knows is her old room, the window into the kitchen, the main room. She stares at the row of cabins— Julie’s in there, somewhere. And beyond all of it, that stark stretch of ocean, gray and roaring against pebbles and sand and shells.

Chiara shivers. _I feel like I’m about to throw up every organ in my body._

“I’m going to get out of the car now,” she intones.

She gets out of the car.

“I’m going to lock the door, and I’m going to go in, and I’m going to get to work.”

She locks the door. She makes her way in.

Opening the door to a rush of warmth is a feeling like no other. The main room is mercifully empty, _thank you, Anneliese,_ and so she heads straight for the kitchen, breathing in the familiar air and the familiar glow of wood paneling around her.

_I’m… I’m really back here. I’m really back here and doing my job again._

_And I don’t even— I don’t even have the humility to feel like an outsider. I can’t even feel like I’m infringing, or intruding, or any of that. I just feel comfortable._

_Comfortable. At home._

_Never thought I’d say that about this place._

Chiara opens the kitchen door—

And there’s Isabel, sitting at the counter with a mug of something steaming, staring up and right into Chiara—

Neither of them speak. Everything in Chiara’s head narrows down to the furious, terrified thump in her chest, the rushing rapids of her pulse against her neck. She’s suddenly very aware of the bags under her eyes, of how Feli’s shirt is just a little too tight in the chest and big in the shoulders, of her tied-back hair and her trembling legs. She’s very aware of Isabel and how she looks exactly like she did in Chiara’s head, and the way her hair flows over her shoulders. The way her eyes flash with the same silent fear. The way her shirt rides up and gives Chiara a glimpse of that tattoo on her side.

It’s a woman’s silhouette from the back. The tattoo itself is small, about the size of a tennis ball, the lines delicate and minimal and curling— one curve is her leg, the calf peeking out, another is the flaring hem of her dress across her heeled feet, the line of her bare back and neck. She turns her head slightly, the faintest wriggle of a profile seeming to peer out, the quick lines of her arms both reaching out as if she’s being held by some invisible person.

Each stroke is somehow meaningless and abstract, meaningful and connecting. It’s a jumble of lines at first glance, a swaying dress under closer inspection, a woman’s delicate form underneath it all.

Under Isabel’s ribs, across the softness of her waist. She’s dancing.

“She’s dancing,” Chiara says. “Your tattoo.”

Isabel just keeps staring, just keeps that blankness in her eyes.

“Chiara,” she says. “Can we talk?”

_Yes. No._

_Yes, I want to talk to you, I want to tell you everything, I want you to hear, to know, I want us to be okay again. I don’t even know what I want, that’s how much I want._

_No, I need to get to work. I think my heart is about to give out. I think I’m going to start crying and I’ll never be able to stop fucking crying if I talk. I think I’m going to fall apart. I think I’m going to crumble into a million meaningless pieces of nothing. I have twenty goddamn Dobos tortes to make. I have a reception to do all the prep work for. I have someone who I owe answers to, I have my own traitorous, deranged, heartless brain sitting in my skull, and it can’t take another word right now._

“Not right now,” she says. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

_I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry._

Isabel takes a short breath, her face miring in pain, an expression Chiara has seen far too often— far, far too often—

“I can’t either,” Isabel says, and her voice is thick and loud and horrible to hear, “I can’t, but we have to have _some_ kind of conversation, we have to say _something,_ Roberto is _gone_ and I can’t keep being this person for you anymore—”

By now her voice isn’t really a yell, but it’s not exactly normal, it’s not quiet, it’s just raw. Scraping. Bloody, wrenched out of her. It rings all around Chiara’s head, in her chest, a pealing bell shaking the very room around them.

“I will,” Chiara says, and she can’t even hear herself over the thud of her heart, that echo in Isabel’s voice. “I just can’t right now.”

_I’ve never seen her mad. I’ve never seen her hurting, really hurting, really about to kill someone, and it’s my fault. It’s my place, my burden to take. Isn’t it?_

“Okay,” Isabel says, and her voice feels like it’s running Chiara through a meat grinder. “Okay. Later.”

She picks up her mug, and she stands, and she breezes past Chiara— tall, proud, regal, strong, and each step is full of some unknowable fire, something burning so bright it’s impossible to follow. The kitchen is empty now, and the fluorescent lights buzz knowingly above. And Chiara can’t feel anything beyond a gnawing, screaming urge to work, to bake and cook and chop and flip until she can prove even a fraction of herself, much less her feelings.

_I’m going to fix this. I’m going to do my job, and then I’m going to talk to Julie, and Isabel, and Feli, and anyone else I need to talk to, and I’m going to set things right. I’m going to talk to myself. I’m going to set that right, too._

So she rolls up her sleeves. Then she opens up the pantry and grabs Anneliese’s instructions, scrawled in narrow cursive on a white sticky note and stuck to a can of sweet corn.

_Chiara. Cake layers have been baked, everything is on the rack. Chocolate buttercream, caramel topping; check all notes. Changed to 12 layers!! Prep everything especially pasta dough. Do it right. Do it well. Do not forget about the focaccia. R_

Chiara smiles despite herself, despite the shithole she’s currently in, because having Anneliese boss her around is like a kindergarten teacher getting instructions from a student.

_A little bit infuriating, a little bit funny. Just a little._

She keeps smiling, and she scans the recipe again. It’s not _that_ bad, really, as long as she doesn’t think about it too much— the sponge is already finished, the butter for the frosting is already laid out to warm up. She just needs to get a cookie cutter and cut out a couple hundred paper-thin rounds of cake…

_Well, then, you better get fucking started._

The next hour or so just involves laying out all the damn _cake_ and getting started. There are about twelve sheet pans with layers baked thinner than a Swiss roll, thinner than a quarter inch, delicate and light when she peels off the individual circles she’s cutting to stack up on the side. About twenty minutes in, she throws in the towel and throws together that chocolate buttercream. Even with the biggest mixer, she has to make it in two batches, although her gratuitous “taste-tests” are probably a contributing factor— it’s only after all the frosting is finished and appropriately stored to chill when she finally gets back to cutting up all that cake.

_And now: assembly._

She thanks whatever deity gave the Quill a rotating cake stand, pressing each layer of cake into the smooth chocolate buttercream underneath it, turning the stand with her left hand and spreading frosting with her right, with the smallest offset spatula she could find.

It’s exactly like the drive from Feli’s to the Quill, really— completely silent, meditative, blank. She doesn’t focus on anything beyond leveling buttercream, beyond gently coating the sides of each cake with slivered almonds. It’s as if there’s no room in her head for anything beyond the sensory experience of _now,_ nothing beyond cake, beyond food.

Just sugar, and flour, the soft peaks of frosting and the spongy surface of a meticulously baked génoise, the crispness of toasted almonds. Just cake.

Time doesn’t feel real for a while. At some point past midnight, Chiara places the last layer on the last cake, presses the last bits of almonds into frosting, and slides all of it into the fridge. At some point after that, she sits down, and she stares down at her fuzzy half-reflection on the metal counter.

It’s not distinct enough for details. She can’t see anything beyond bare smears of color, beyond glowing pulses reflecting the fluorescent lights above her.

_Where am I?_

_Why am I still here?_

For once, the abstractness looking back at her doesn’t feel like enough. She wants to see her whole face, her real face, the tired slope of her eyes and the overgrowth of her bangs, every detail clear and unflinching.

But there isn’t a mirror in the kitchen. And she has work to do, so she gets up to get started on the caramel.

* * *

A few more hours go by, hours that seem to fly away as Chiara pipes out dozens of chocolate garnishes and pours golden discs of chewy caramel, kneads together enough focaccia dough to feed a family for a week, enough pasta dough to fill a whole sink with ribbons of linguine. She sets out steaks to marinate— she blends vinaigrette, she prepares garnishes, she does every possible task she can reasonably do, until it’s a little past four and she has nothing to do except wait.

_I should talk to Julie, shouldn’t I. I need to find her._

_You shouldn’t bother her on her wedding day._

_No, I need to do it now. I need to do it so she can get married in peace— I need to catch her as soon as she wakes up._

So she brushes herself off, and she opens the door to the main room to go and wait.

It’s startlingly tranquil. A single lamp is on in one corner, the fireplace steadily crackling in the other corner, and it’s right about that time when the sky starts to shift a little blue, when birds would start to sing. She’s never seen the Quill like this, and it feels…

Sleepy. Inviting. Exhaustion is already eating Chiara alive— she hasn’t slept since the previous night, and now the cozy warmth around her threatens to drag her into sleep right there—

That is, until she sees none other than Julie herself, sitting on the couch and staring directly into the fireplace. She has her hair tied up haphazardly, and her legs are folded and tucked tightly. Chiara can barely see her side profile— it’s still, not rigid, but smooth, like an undisturbed puddle.

_Fuck. I’m about to splash right through._

“Julie,” she says.

It’s like the world glitches and lags on her for a second, a brief moment of empty echoing, before Julie swivels all the way to stare with shock unfolding across her face.

“What—” she says, cutting herself off after that first word like it snapped her voice in half.

“I want to talk to you,” Chiara says. “About everything.” And she’s suddenly very aware of how stupid that must sound, how alien, especially to Julie, who barely heard _I want to talk_ when they were together, much less _about everything._ She’s very aware of the complete reluctance on Julie’s face. She’s very aware of her own self, quivering in terror, screaming to run, to hide.

She takes another step forward. “I don’t want this to hang over any more of your life.”

Julie blinks, presses her lips together, visibly swallowing.

“Okay,” she says. “Sit down, then.”

Just a little bit raspy, light, easy— _just her voice is making me remember so much. Just her being here makes me so fucking scared._

_You_ know _her, she doesn’t hold grudges,_ some inner manifestation of Daniel says. _It’s going to be fine._

_Chiara, please,_ says inner-Isabel. _We have to talk about this. You have to say something._

_Don’t be a coward,_ Anneliese’s voice says. _You have to look it all in the face._

_Look her in the face._

Chiara makes her way around the couch, settling tentatively into an armchair that’s a comfortable distance from Julie, a little bit closer to the fireplace. Julie doesn’t look at her, doesn’t even turn in her direction. She just keeps her eyes on the fire— that too-bright, flickering light, the gentle crackle of wood and embers, wisping and burning away.

“I,” Chiara says. “I’m…”

_I’m sorry, that’s all. It’s not enough. It’s never going to be enough. I’m sorry for that, too._

“Are you sorry?” Julie says at last.

Chiara doesn’t even have a chance to formulate some kind of “yes” when Julie steamrolls straight past it.

“You should be,” she says, not vindictive, just factual. “You better be sorry.”

“I— I am,” Chiara stammers, “I’m sorry,” and it sounds so horrifically inadequate she could just hurl herself straight into the fireplace right then and there.

“Hm,” Julie says.

“It’s not enough. I know,” Chiara says, and she tries to breathe, to think. “I’m not trying to defend myself. Just to be clear.”

Julie flashes a joyless grimace of a smile. “Good. It’s funny, I’m getting married to the love of my life, in front of the love of my life and the love of my life, and I see you— it’s not a pair, not a trifecta like I’d expected, no. It’s the whole quartet.”

Chiara blinks up at her. “You mean Anneliese and Daniel?”

Julie just snorts. “What a fun coincidence, huh? Yeah. I’m just that great, I guess, and the universe decided that was the best plan. All four of them. Same room.”

Chiara…

Can’t respond to that, because to be in the same category as someone’s _wife—_

_She called me the love of her life?_

“Yes, I’m serious,” Julie says dryly, almost like she can see exactly which gears are turning in Chiara’s head, almost like they lived together for a year. “By the way, you _really_ fucked everything up for me when you did that. That’s what I mean by ‘you better be sorry’. You know that, right?”

“I— I do,” Chiara says. _Christ, I really do. I want to die._

That same humorless chuckle. “It’s crazy. It really is. I was daydreaming about all kinds of stupid shit. About us, about having a dog or two. You in a wedding dress.”

_I thought about that too,_ Chiara thinks. _And it made me sick. I wanted it so badly. I wanted nothing to do with it._

“Yeah,” she says. “Stupid.”

“And now I’m going to be the one in a wedding dress,” Julie mutters, raising an eyebrow and glancing off to the side. “I think you were the last straw for me. I severed any attachments to Anna and Daniel, I lived on my own for a year… well, it wasn’t all bad. I started growing out my hair. I got on E. I met Maddie, I changed everything to the way it should be, but I’m back here again, like I’m nineteen and I hate myself, like I’m infatuated with all the wrong people.”

“Wrong?” Chiara asks.

Julie just shrugs. “It’s not just about a feeling, it’s a choice you have to make. So you’re not wrong, not anymore. You were just wrong for me, vice versa, all that. And Anna and Daniel were just as wrong for me. Frankly, at the end of the day, I knew I was coming between them—” 

Here she snorts, smirking. “I still am, really.”

“Yeah. I definitely got that,” Chiara says. _Definitely, one thousand percent, very much caught onto that._

Julie laughs shortly. “Hm. Did you.”

Now it’s Chiara’s turn to scoff. “Any goddamn interaction that was remotely negative was about you. Like, not _over_ you, but just…”

“On the topic,” Julie says, grinning sharply, for real. “That’s awesome.”

“Awesome?”

She shrugs. “Not for them, but definitely for me.”

It’s so… Julie, Chiara supposes, so in character it’s a little painful to see, from the sly smile to the easy arrogance. She can’t say it makes her _miss_ anything, per se, not after how everything else went. It doesn’t mean much. It’s just another flash in the pan that tugs at her nostalgia, just a little more than it should. It’s just a lot to stare in the face.

“So, uh,” she says. “What are you doing out here. Four in the morning.”

Julie raises an eyebrow. “I’m thinking about my fuckin’ wedding. You know? Thinking about getting married. My fiancée, soon to be wife, whatever. And then you came out and wanted to talk to me.”

Chiara doesn’t have a response for that. _I did._

Julie just drums her fingers on the arm of the couch, as if she’s saying _why why why_ with every _tap tap tap._

“So?” she says.

“I just…” Chiara feels another gush of shame, and she stares down at her lap, stares at the soft firelight rippling over pants that aren’t quite her size.

She swallows hard. “I don’t know. I’m not asking forgiveness. I just don’t want it to be an open wound, or a reopened wound, or anything, I just wanted to settle things as much as I could with you. I don’t want to assume anything. I don’t know what I want. I’m just beyond sorry and beyond guilty and beyond inadequate and it’s not even about me, it’s about you, it’s about _your_ fuckin’ wedding. And I ruined it.”

Julie snorts at the last part, a tiny stamp of approval that moderately compensates for Chiara’s utter inability to articulate anything else—

“I’ll be honest here,” she says, and the expression on her face is completely incomprehensible, “I talked to Isabel. A lot. About you, and all your shit, and what you’ve been up to since we broke up. Sorry not sorry, by the way. And I’m not gonna throw around the word forgiveness, none of that, you already know I think it’s bullshit. But I’ll be honest and say I don’t want anything from you either.”

“You…” Chiara breathes deeply, though it doesn’t feel like she’s actually taking in any air. “You talked to her about me.”

Julie grins. “Yeah, you guys sound messy as fuck. But that’s not my point.”

“Not your point,” Chiara faintly echoes.

“Nope. I know you had your own shit back then, too. And you don’t engage in, in, uh…”

Deep breaths. Deep breaths.

“You don’t engage in hypersexuality with men as a lesbian,” Chiara says, “unless you have a _big_ fucking problem.”

And Julie laughs with her whole stomach— normally, that kind of response would be the most insulting thing Chiara could come up with, the worst response to something so shitty. And it’s absolutely a nightmarish response to the first time she’s ever properly articulated that fact to herself, much less anyone else.

And yet— it’s clearly _friendly,_ the kind of intimately incredulous laugh she could only ever dream of sharing with a friend. Laughing at absurdity, stupidity, at everything that shouldn’t be laughed at, until every trembling tear rolls off your back and evaporates away.

Chiara isn’t laughing with her, but it still feels like they’re laughing together.

_I guess that’s what I miss the most about Julie,_ some quiet part of her brain supplies. _Laughing._

“Exactly,” Julie says, “and if you’re engaging in hypermasculinity and gender dysphoria you should probably have a long think about your goddamn gender. Aren’t you so glad we’re on the same page now?”

A hint of that belly laugh sneaks up on Chiara too, now, and she bites her cheek to keep it from bursting all the way out.

“Yeah,” she says. “Jesus Christ. I’m seriously so fucking sorry for everything.”

Julie shrugs. “We were both queer women in a straight relationship. Not an excuse, you were a piece of shit, but it is what it is. No sense in dwelling on it.”

“Seriously,” Chiara says. _Seriously?_

“What?”

“No, I just…”

“What, you want me to kick the shit out of you instead?”

Chiara can’t help snorting at that, maybe because it sounds exactly like something she’d say, maybe because she wishes someone would kick the shit out of her after all. “No— I mean, I thought it wasn’t about forgiveness. I don’t know.”

Julie grins. “Well, if you really want to get the shit kicked out of you, feel free to talk to Maddie. Stay out of her way, by the way— ever since she heard about it all, I’ve been scared she’s going to hunt you down, ha.”

_Jesus Christ, you don’t have to tell me twice._

“What happened to ‘no sense in dwelling on it’?” she stutters out.

“Very funny. Try saying that to Maddie,” Julie says. “I dare you.”

“Sure. I get the message,” Chiara says, sinking deeper into her chair, turning her eyes back to the fireplace. “I wasn’t planning on leaving the kitchen, anyway.”

Julie crosses her arms, clearing her throat. “So. You gonna talk to Isabel?”

_Am I?_

_I need to. I have to. I want to._

“Huh? Are you going to? Or not?”

Chiara blinks out of her reverie to see Julie staring back at her with those raised eyebrows, that incredulity, an expectation on her face that betrays just how serious she is beyond the joking and the laughing.

_Oh, God._ “What do you think,” Chiara manages.

Julie’s expression quickly dissolves back into a grin. “Man, you _really_ like her, huh?”

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? _I’m stuck with all my goddamn emotions, and I know just how fucked and unhealthy everything is, and I want to fix things but I know it’s just not happening right now. I want everything to be okay but I know that’s not how things go for me. I really fucking like her and I want—_

She takes a deep breath, because _it’s not about what I want. Not now._

So she clamps her hands together in her lap, and she turns back to Julie. “You talked to her. You know as well as I do how fucked my chances are.”

“Chances of what?” Julie shrugs. “You don’t _know_ anything. _I’m_ her best friend, I know what I’m talking about.”

_Fine. I’ll bite._ “What do you know, then?”

Julie rolls her eyes. “Well, she really fuckin’ likes you too, in case you couldn’t tell by the way she _literally told you,_ yeah? And she wants to hear from you about it all. And she’s been beyond sad about Roberto, and she’s been pissed and crying and confused and manic and hysterical and everything in between, like most people in that kind of situation. She’s another human being. Got it so far?”

“Huh,” Chiara says, and there’s a sardonic laugh sitting in the back of her throat, edging into her words. “You know, I’m so self-centered, I didn’t even think about her and Roberto.”

“I mean.” Julie turns her eyes to Chiara, and there’s something profoundly open sitting behind her gaze. “You just lost your _grandfather._ It’s the shittiest thing imaginable. It’s the worst timing for you, really, and you can’t judge yourself for _that._ Besides, I’ve been feeling shitty enough about Roberto that I’m not going to ask or talk to you about him. None of that ‘how are you doing’ shit. That’s for you to seek for yourself, not for me to impose on you. Swear to God, it’s ridiculous when you’re getting married, and people start asking you to describe your fucking grief.”

Chiara is—

Stunned, silenced, left asunder by the compassion in those words, the frankness of it all. She can’t even begin to comprehend every implication, every emotion.

Finally, she stammers out: “Someone asked you that?”

Julie bares her teeth, her voice singsong. “What’s been going through your head? Roberto, and all. _And all._ All what, him fucking dying?”

She heaves an enormous sigh, and Chiara is struck by the realization that Isabel really wasn’t the only one to find some comfort in Roberto, to find some kind of acceptance or safety within his circle, within the Quill. It feels like everyone who knew him is mourning. Everyone who knew him understands.

It doesn’t comfort her, exactly— but it’s not the worst feeling, not the most horrible.

_That’s my grandfather’s legacy. And he left it to me._

“Anyways,” Julie mutters. “Let’s not talk about him anymore.” And that compassion in her voice is back full-force, snaking through the room, clamping around Chiara’s throat, threatening to choke her with tears.

She can’t put up a front for this, not anymore. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” says Julie.

“It’s probably almost five,” Chiara mumbles, for lack of something better to say, to stumble away from the topic. “Shouldn’t you…”

“Shouldn’t _you_ be working?” Julie tosses back, voice dry. “And don’t you have something to discuss with someone?”

Chiara blinks back at her, feeling somewhere between incredibly confused and a little terrified, feeling something between relief and exhaustion flooding her.

“Um, with you?” she says, and Julie presses her fingers into her forehead with a massive sigh before sitting up straight and looking her dead in the eye.

“Isabel,” she says. “Isabel. Talk to Isabel.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Chiara says, and they sit there and stare at each other for entirely too long—

Because, really, what do you even say? What kind of words can ease this kind of convoluted mess? She doesn’t think Julie’s anywhere close to forgiveness, she just doesn’t give a fuck— is that forgiveness? Does it even matter? Everything just keeps moving, rushing, racing past, and Chiara is lodged deep in the dirt and the mud, trapped in tears from the past while the present surges around her. It doesn’t feel like she’ll ever be free of it, like she’ll ever lift herself up and out, or let the rapids wash her clean and sweep her away.

_I don’t think I’ll ever know what to say. But what else can you do?_

“Come on, now,” Julie says, and something fond creeps over her face, and she smiles a smile Chiara remembers so deeply it hurts.

“Okay,” she says, voice trembling.

Julie just keeps smiling. “Good luck. And thanks for catching up with me.”

“I hope your—” Chiara gulps, forces the rest of the words out. “I hope your wedding is perfect. And I’m so sorry, for everything, always. And I hope you’re happy.”

That fondness blooms in full on Julie’s face, and Chiara feels like she’s about to fall apart.

“Thank you,” Julie says. And then she laughs again, bright and free and weightless, kicking up her feet on the couch. “I am, I really am. I’m not waiting for people to come to my funeral anymore, just my wedding.”

“Just your wedding,” Chiara repeats. _Just her wedding._

She can feel Julie’s incandescence radiating out and into her, draining the weight in her chest, the throbbing in her head. Maybe it’s just projection, or optimism. Maybe she’s just hallucinating.

She walks back to the kitchen, and something heavy in her falls away forever.


	19. thinking of you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've got road maps  
> From two dozen states  
> I've got coast to coast just to contemplate  
> Will you still love me  
> When I get back to town?"  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["Blue Motel Room"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q-Jkv02sTps)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it, we're finally here, the second-to-last chapter!!! sorry for the wait. I'm SO happy to post this, and I really really hope you like it as much as I do!  
> a note: I'm thinking of also writing a frying pangle-centric 3-shot in the future, along with maybe some extras in terms of BTT/spamano/other things? let me know what you think about that, or what you'd like to see a little more of. I know I'm definitely going to explore this AU more though!
> 
> honestly no CWs other than the usual themes of grief/trauma from before. like the previous chapter it's pretty tame imo.
> 
> anyways thank you SO MUCH for reading and supporting it means the world to me. please enjoy :)

Chiara spends the next couple hours doing odd jobs here and there, cleaning up the kitchen, setting out what she needs to set out, putting away what she needs to put away. Mostly, she’s trying to keep herself busy.

Really—

She’s just dreading Isabel’s arrival. Normally, they’d be making breakfast together, or otherwise preparing for the rest of the day, assigning tasks and working on whatever needs to be done. Today, there’s a whole wedding going on, and she doesn’t have a clue about what needs to happen beyond the whole  _ getting married _ thing.

_ I don’t even know what breakfast is supposed to be, so I can’t even start it, I just have to sit here and do nothing. _

_ Actually, maybe I should go change. I look like a mess and none of my clothes fit right. Maybe I should go to bed, actually, and sleep until I need to wake up, whenever the ceremony is over and I have to start plating everything. Maybe I should just consider my job done for now and leave forever. That doesn’t sound so bad. _

It’s enticing— and cowardly, and the thought of running into Isabel on the way to her room is an awkward nightmare. So Chiara takes a reluctant seat, staring at the kitchen door with unease roiling up in her stomach.

_ I promised to talk to her, didn’t I? I did. She probably wanted to fucking kill me, but I promised. _

_ I promised I’d talk to Julie, too, and it went fine. I can talk to Isabel. I have to fucking talk for once. I have to do it. _

As if on cue, the kitchen door swings open, and Chiara can feel every muscle in her back and shoulders clench up—

And everything relaxes again, because it’s just Daniel and Anneliese. They’re chattering amongst themselves, though they immediately rush in her direction when they spot her, harried and quick. They look completely disastrous: Daniel’s wearing a dress shirt and a pair of too-big sweatpants, which has to be the sloppiest thing Chiara’s ever seen in her life. Anneliese isn’t looking much better in a vintage-looking  _ slip _ with a big unzipped jacket thrown over it.

“Chiara!” Daniel cries. “Holy shit— it’s good to see you, is everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” Chiara mutters. “Anneliese, you look like you just came back from a night of bar-hopping. All three of us, actually.”

Anneliese scoffs. Daniel just starts laughing, though it seems evenly split between incredulity and relief, the kind of laugh that isn’t remotely humorous.

“Thank you for the warm welcome,” Anneliese deadpans, though she looks like she’s on the verge of cracking up herself. “We just remembered you were here, so we came down. Did you follow everything on my note?”

“Oh, and you said you were talking to Julie at some point?” Daniel chimes in.

“I’m done with everything. The only thing left to do is the actual cooking,” Chiara says dryly, “and I already talked to her.”

The other two blink at her like lost children before jolting backwards in a very delayed double take, turning to each other and her again.

“When?” says Anneliese.

Chiara shrugs. “A couple hours ago. She was in the main room, so we talked.”

“And…?” Daniel raises his eyebrows.

She sighs, leaning back on the counter with her elbows. “It’s fine now. We’re fine, she’s fine, it’s all fine. No big deal.”

_ We’re just not going to talk about the whole “Maddie hunting me down” thing. Or any of the fucked-up throuple shit, if that makes them drop it and let me be. _

Daniel and Anneliese turn to each other again, making that weird eye contact they’ve been making over the last month, some kind of telepathic conversation passing between them before they start dissolving back to normal. It makes Chiara a little uneasy, that reinforcement of some tenuous bubble separating her from them. Something is different. She’s never felt more acutely like a third wheel.

Daniel claps a hand on Anneliese’s shoulder— she just huffs and wraps her jacket tighter around herself.

“Good,” she says. “Good, I’m glad.”

“Me too,” Daniel says, his thumb now making little circles on Anneliese’s jacket. “Are you feeling okay? Should we take over? You were working all night, I mean…”

“I’m fine,” Chiara says curtly.  _ I’m a little done with this. _

“Are you sure?”

_ For once, yeah. I’m sure. I’m fine. _ “It’s fine. I’ll do whatever I need to be doing, you guys do what you need to. Wedding now, sleep later, whatever.”

Anneliese frowns, leaning a little closer to Daniel, something unasked behind her face. “Hmm. Alright,” she says.

“What.”

Daniel laughs nervously. Anneliese glances to the side, opening her mouth slightly but saying nothing.

_ If they’re talking about what I think they’re talking about… _

“Why are you laughing,” Chiara mutters. “What do you want.”

“Just, uh,” Daniel says, chuckling lightly, eyes flicking over to some distant thing over her shoulder. “Isabel? Have you talked to her? Or, like, planned on it? You know, not trying to pressure you or anything, just curious, since she’s…”

_ Pissed? About to end my life? _

It’s a heavy strain on Chiara’s face to keep her expression neutral. “I saw her last night. Yeah, I’m talking to her. Are you two done?”

“Oh, thank God,” Anneliese mutters. “Yes, we’re done.”

Daniel winces. “What— okay, we’re not done, are we? Chiara, I haven’t even had the chance to catch up with you or anything, I mean. We haven’t seen you in a  _ week. _ Are you at least going to be at the reception, or around the Quill for a while, I don’t know, are we going to see you again?”

Part of her wants to say no, to say  _ never, I’m out. _ Part of her wants to let the floodgates open. All of her doesn’t want to think about it.

“I don’t know,” she settles on saying. “I don’t know, but it’s not relevant right now.”

“Huh,” Daniel says, eyes probing into her, and they stare at each other for entirely too long.

“Anyways,” Chiara finally cuts in.  _ Please leave now, _ she’s trying to say,  _ before Isabel actually shows up. _

“Anyways,” he repeats. They stand there and do nothing.

The kitchen door swings open again—

And  _ oh God, not now, _ because it’s Isabel, because Chiara’s heart is in her throat and they’re all silent and staring at each other and it might just be the most awkward, twisted, confusing moment of her life.

_ What the fuck do I even do. What the fuck can I even say. What are we even discussing? _

“Shit,” Daniel hisses, probably loud enough for Isabel to hear, his hand tightening on Anneliese’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

_ No. No, I changed my mind. Do not fucking leave me, _ Chiara finds herself frantically thinking.  _ Not now. _

It’s a little too late for that, though— they’re already turning away, Anneliese shooting a very pointed look in her direction, and Isabel keeps staring wide-eyed as they rush out of the kitchen.

_ What now. What now. _

“Hey,” Isabel says, and her voice is raspy and quiet. “I’m making waffles.”

_ She looks so drained. Her best friend is getting married, and she looks like she was crying all night, and it’s probably my fault. _

“Okay,” Chiara says.

_ Is this what it feels like talking to my awkward ass? I hate it. I hate it so much, I hate this, I hate it— _

“Can you, uh,” Isabel murmurs. “Can you take out the sugar and flour?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Then: silence, something so heavy and oppressive it makes it hard to breathe right, the kind of silence that isn’t even broken by the thump of the sugar tub on the floor or the clang of the waffle iron. They sit in it for a while, season it with the sound of a knife slicing through fruit or the rumbling of the coffee machine, with the soft clunking of footsteps, anything but words or thoughts or feelings.

“You know,” Isabel finally says as she’s washing her hands, and the words strike up a deep dread in Chiara’s chest, a dread that fills the air with a kind of stifling humidity.

_ No, I don’t. I’m scared. I don’t know. I want it to be silent again. _

“I don’t even know what to think,” Isabel continues. She turns off the sink, drying off her hands and staring at the floor. “I’m not sure. I don’t even know what I’ve been feeling over the last week.”

Chiara puts down her knife, along with the wedge of melon she’s cutting— at this point, her hands are shivering and light, too weak to do much of anything— and she sits back down in a stool at the counter.

“The thing is,” Isabel muses, “I’m not angry. Not anymore. I don’t know what I am, really. Roberto is gone. You’re… I don’t know. I want to talk to you, but I don’t know what to talk about. I care about you, and I have no idea how I can reconcile that with everything else and my own self.”

“You were angry?” Chiara says, and immediately regrets it the moment she says it, immediately regrets the stupidity of the words and the flatness of her voice.

_ Of course she was angry. Did you not talk to her angry self last night? You fucking idiot. _

Isabel just shrugs. “Sure. I was mad. At you, at Roberto, at the world, I don’t know. I went on a lot of runs. I waded around in the ocean for a few hours and probably got pretty close to hypothermia. I drank myself under the table and cried myself to sleep last night, which I haven’t done since I was nineteen, not since…”

She trails off, not sounding particularly sad or angry, just matter-of-fact—

“I’m sorry,” Chiara blurts. “I know it’s not enough. I’m just fucking sorry.”

Isabel looks up at her, eyes glinting under the light, glinting along with that necklace sitting around her neck, and Chiara can’t swallow down the lump in her throat.

“I really don’t know what to say,” Isabel says softly.

“I’m sorry,” Chiara repeats, tears already sneaking into her voice.

“Well, you were young and confused,” Isabel says, even softer, “and Julie—”

“Doesn’t care anymore, I know. I talked to her, I just know you’re— you— I don’t know, but it doesn’t justify anything. You got cheated on and it ruined everything for you. I don’t want you to stick up for me and every horrible thing I did.”

“A lot of horrible things happened to you too.”

Chiara’s head starts to pound and throb, her lungs gasping for breath as her whole body seems to compress like a crushed aluminum can. “Yeah. They did. And it’s not an excuse. I can’t say that, you can’t say that, and I don’t blame you if you never want to talk to me again, because I really have to say I fucking deserve it. I wouldn’t be surprised. Not when this whole thing is so…”

“Chiara,” Isabel says, her throat bobbing as she swallows. “You know I don’t want to cut you off, right? I don’t hate you.”

“I…”

And Chiara runs out of steam completely after that, the rest of the words in her floating off into nothing, the rest of her body hollowing out.

“I mean it. I really do care about you,” Isabel says, and her voice cracks a little on the  _ you. _ “It’s just been a hard time. And Roberto—”

_ Roberto is dead. Roberto is dead, and he’s not coming back. _

“He’s not coming back,” Chiara mumbles. There’s that familiar push of tears behind her eyes again. There’s the familiar pressure in her sinuses, the familiar clench of her throat. That pressing into the backs of her eyes grows until it’s a punch in the face, until tears start to trickle out, small and salty and sad-tasting, because he’s not coming back—

And she didn’t even know him that well, not really—

_ I’m never really going to know him, then, am I. I’m never going to be a shitty granddaughter to him again. I’m never going to hear his loud laugh, or get to talk to him about the stupid things in my life, and I didn’t even know him that well. Isabel said he was like a father to her. I didn’t even know him. _

“Yeah,” Isabel says, faint, far-off. “He’s not coming back.”

“I’m sorry,” Chiara’s broken-record mouth says, feeling very much like Feli, feeling impossibly adrift.

Isabel shrugs. “You don’t have to be sorry about it. He’s your grandfather.”

Chiara can’t formulate a good response, so she doesn’t say anything, and they sit there in that silence, with a half-cooked breakfast splayed out over the kitchen and a piercing sort of eye contact between them.

_ I’m still crying, _ she distantly thinks.

_ Isabel hasn’t been. I hope she doesn’t. _

_ I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I don’t know why I’m still doing this. _

“You know,” Chiara says at last. “I really wanted to stay in Newport.”

“Oh— really,” Isabel says, and she glances over quickly, almost nervously. “Did you?”

“I still do,” says Chiara.

“Ah.”

And somehow  _ this _ is what makes Chiara’s insides crackle and snap and break—  _ this _ is the final straw, this insignificant little acknowledgment of that sliver of optimism living in her heart, that delicate potential hung up in her head like a painting on the mantel.

“I didn’t want it to be weird with us and me being your boss,” she finds herself saying, and the words sound stupid and stilted, “I just wanted to stay, and work where I could work, and drive around with you. I don’t know. It was stupid. I really don’t know. I just wanted to be normal, or fine, or something other than a neurotic fucking disaster for you to handle with kid gloves. I just wanted some kind of okay. I don’t know.”

“Huh,” Isabel says, her voice and face unreadable.

“I don’t know,” Chiara repeats. “I’m sorry.”

_ It’s like I can’t say anything else. I don’t know what, or why. I’m just fucking sorry. _

_ Selfishness, unrelenting pessimism. Cycles upon cycles of self-injury. Pain on top of pain on top of pain, frittering everything away, sitting here without the words I need, the people I need. _

_ There’s no greater narcissism than self-hatred. _

“Well, I’m glad you felt that way about us, you know,” Isabel says, and Chiara is struck by this shift from the previous night’s fire, this changing softness as Isabel stares down at the floor. There’s a certain something sitting behind her words that makes Chiara’s insides shift and writhe.

“What…” she says, more of a reflex than anything else.

Isabel smiles wryly and shrugs. “I don’t know. I felt like that, too, I guess. I wanted things to be alright and easy. I don’t think it’s feasible, not now, but I understand.”

“It’s not,” Chiara mumbles. She can’t tell if she’s confirming or questioning it.

“It’s not,” Isabel confirms.

_ I’m sorry, _ Chiara wants to say again, and again, and again. The tears still haven’t stopped.

“I couldn’t ever say anything about myself to you, much less about how I felt.” she finally says. “I can’t imagine how infuriating I am to deal with. I can’t imagine how difficult that must be.”

Isabel shakes her head, smiling lightly, distantly. “No, I knew how you felt just fine. I appreciate the sentiment, though. Communication is important. But hey, you’re telling me right now, aren’t you?”

_ I can’t respond to that right now. I really can’t. I’m going to explode. _

Isabel just laces her fingers together, staring down at her hands. “I don’t think it’s not feasible forever. For us to be… I don’t know. Something. Whatever we want to be. The future is a big place.”

“That’s a little optimistic, isn’t it,” Chiara chokes out.

Isabel shrugs. “What else do we have?”

_ What else do we have, indeed? What else do I have? _

Chiara wants to curl up into nothing. She wants to crawl into bed, to crawl into a hole, to force the remaining pieces of herself together again as the words start coming, as the last wall crumbles into dust—

“I’ve only ever been fucked over by optimism,” she says, and it sounds  _ so stupid, _ and her voice shakes and warbles and twists under tears. “All I ever do is come up with the worst, most unrealistic garbage, and then I disappoint myself, I disappoint everyone around me, and I can’t stop doing it. I ruin every drop of happiness in my life. I keep messing things up, and I  _ really _ like being with you. I’m just so tired of being me.”

Isabel stands fully, something gentle and kind in her face as she comes a little closer, something rippling and sad— like a mirror, a tear falls down her face too.

“I know me saying it won’t change the way you feel,” she says, “but you’re not disappointing. I don’t think you’re irredeemable. I don’t think you’re stuck like this forever, I don’t even think this defines you as a person in any way. I mean, I care about you for a reason. You’re completely justified in the pain you feel right now. But you’ve been doing better. You know that, right?”

“I don’t know,” Chiara says, miserable, tired.

“I believe in you— I do. Change can happen, and you’re not your shortcomings. Not at all.”

“I don’t know,” Chiara says again. She does know.

They’re silent for a while. They look around each other, but not at each other—

And Chiara puts her face in her hands, because she’s really crying now, so much more than she’s ever cried in her life, tears sweeping through her, sweeping away all the dust and the dirt from before.

“Thank you for believing in me,” she says, she sobs, she heaves, she shatters. “I’m so fucking scared.”

_ I’m so scared of getting better. I’m so scared, God, I’ve never been more terrified of everything in my life. I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know how I’m ever going to turn things around, I feel like I’m looking down into an endless hole and trying to build a bridge across, building toward some nebulous growth, change, something completely intangible. Something I need. _

_ There are so many things on the other side. There are so many people. I feel so fucking aware— _

_ I feel so lost— _

_ I feel— _

Isabel doesn’t say anything, just places a hand on Chiara’s forearm, on her shaking, crying self.

_ I feel open. I feel held. _

“You’re okay,” Isabel whispers, so quiet it’s almost inaudible, and there’s a tiny echo of  _ I’m here, _ from Feli, Daniel, Anneliese, even Julie, Roberto looking down from somewhere, simply holding every morsel of shame, of fear, of trauma, of sadness, holding her.

The warmth of Isabel’s hand is nothing short of heartbreaking. The warmth of arms reaching around her, firm but comforting, the feeling of being  _ present— _

Chiara buries her face in Isabel’s neck, and she cries into that warm, dark void, that shattering feeling in her chest. She doesn’t know what she’s crying for, what she’s crying about. Each breath seems to heave itself up and out of her chest— each tear burns as it drips down her face.

“You’re okay,” Isabel says again. “You’re okay.”

Chiara dares to think, just for a brief second, that she might be.

* * *

They stay like that for a while— at some point, Chiara finds herself giving Isabel a squeeze before starting to extricate herself, and they wipe their faces and chuckle and engage in pleasantly meaningless conversation—

And it’s normal. It’s good.  _ I’m okay. I’m fine. _

_ I’m fine, _ she thinks, sliding another waffle onto a plate right before Isabel whisks it away.  _ I’m okay, _ she thinks, setting up the tables and chairs for the ceremony and reception.  _ It’s going to be okay, _ she thinks, sweeping until her arms are sore, polishing and wiping and dusting and everything in between.

It’s all okay, even if she’s not okay right now. It’s a good day. Someone is getting married.

Chiara doesn’t attend the ceremony itself, mostly out of self-respect and a grasp of basic boundaries— she just watches from the kitchen window as the small group of guests settles into their seats, the sun lightly skimming across the beach, a slight breeze ruffling everyone’s hair. It’s a nice day, a little on the overcast side.

As weddings go, it looks… nice. Ideal, almost perfect, even.  _ Not the worst thing I’ve ever seen from a wedding, not by a long shot. _

At some point, Anneliese stands up, a black instrument case in hand—

_ Is she… Shit, she’s going to play something, isn’t she? _

Chiara throws all caution to the wind and props open the back door the tiniest bit, just enough to peek out, maybe enough to listen. She watches as Anneliese takes a seat in a chair set up by the side, exchanging a couple words with the woman who seems to be the officiant before taking a violin out of the case and tuning it. Each note rings clear, even to Chiara— from what she can see, the instrument is glossy and polished, clearly well-maintained, and Anneliese’s posture is perfect.

_ She looks… _

_ Professional. Graceful, in her element. Like she’s in some orchestra in Vienna or Paris. _

And she starts to play, really play, striking up a smooth and sparkling rendition of something familiar. Chiara can’t fully place it, but it sounds classical, like something you’d expect to hear at a wedding, something full and fluttering.

_ She’s… seriously amazing. What did Daniel say, you haven’t heard music until you’ve heard her play? _

It’s exquisite, transcendent. Chiara finally sees:

Julie and Maddie, walking down their impromptu aisle hand in hand without a parent in sight, white dresses swishing around their legs as they make their way toward the officiant. That delicate touch of Anneliese’s violin is the perfect backdrop to their perfect wedding, their perfect joy. Chiara finds herself putting her hands on her chest, feeling her heartbeat jump and spark, feeling faint and not entirely present in her body.

_ They just look so gentle with each other. They look so happy. Julie especially looks so happy, like she’s about to dissolve right there. I can’t believe I’m here to see her get married. _

_ I can’t believe I’m here. I think I’m going to pass out. _

_ I don’t think I should watch any more. _

So Chiara turns from the window, shutting the back door and sitting down at the table. She puts her head down. She closes her eyes, and she drifts away, sleep surging up and engulfing her completely for what seems like mere seconds before—

“Chiara?” someone says.

“Yeah?” she mumbles back, the table hard against her forehead.

“The ceremony’s over,” the person says. “It’s cocktail hour right now— I’m going to go change, then we can start plating, okay?”

Chiara finally manages to lift her head and blink blearily at none other than Isabel, wearing a sangria-colored dress that slinks down to the floor and raising an eyebrow, and she suddenly feels nothing short of exposed and grubby.

“Oh,” she mumbles. “Oh, sorry. Okay.”

“I’ll be back in a few,” Isabel says, and Chiara can’t help noticing how her necklace falls right above her neckline, catching the light and shining blue against her chest. She looks elegant. She looks pretty.

“You look nice. You look pretty,” Chiara mutters, though it comes out entirely too slurred and sleepy, and she’s already sinking back down to the table.

_ Jesus, that was kind of stupid, wasn’t it. _

“Oh,” Isabel says, and a smile Chiara’s never seen flickers across her face. “Thanks, um…”

_ Maybe not. Maybe a little less stupid. _

“It’s fine, I know I don’t,” Chiara says, her head already back on the table, her brain fuzzy with exhaustion. “Just wake me up when you get back.”

“I will,” Isabel’s voice says, and then she’s gone. Chiara plunges back into unconsciousness in an instant.

Time passes strangely to her sleep-addled brain. At some point, Isabel shakes her awake, and they spend the next couple hours searing meat and fish, braising vegetables, boiling and chopping and sautéing. Chiara gets caught up in sliding pans of focaccia in and out of the oven, in flipping salmon filets and lightly mashing potatoes. It’s never been easier to fall into something meditative— she doesn’t remember or think about most of it, not really, just the next plate to make and the timer on the pot of pasta.

Dinner starts. Isabel wheels out a cart laden with baskets of sliced focaccia, dressed in a  _ suit _ that was clearly tailored to perfection, and Chiara starts on assembly.

It’s just soup and salad so far, but she has to appreciate how good everything’s looking— the kitchen overflows with the rich smell of seafood bisque, pale orange and studded with succulent lobster, dashed with thyme and drops of melted butter. She fills up the next cart, then gets to drizzling plates of green salad with truffle vinaigrette, going back and forth, garnishing and nudging until it looks about right.

_ If I wasn’t so tired, I’d be hungry as hell, _ she thinks.

_ No, I’m still hungry. And tired. _

“Hey,” Isabel says, and Chiara glances up to see her pushing the cart back through the door, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. “Are you finished?”

“Yeah,” Chiara replies. “You taking it out right now?”

Isabel shakes her head, glancing over the soup. “Give it a few minutes, let people settle down with their drinks and their food. This all looks really good though.”

_ Thank God. _ Chiara nods, biting back a yawn and leaning back against the counter.

“Did you get any sleep?” Isabel says with a light frown.

“Nah,” Chiara mumbles, “just those few minutes during the ceremony.”

“Do you want to…”

“It’s fine. I can make it through dinner.”

Isabel raises an eyebrow, settling into one of the stools sitting directly across from Chiara, splaying out her legs— she’s wearing pointed boots, Chiara notes, and a gold tie.  _ Who wears ties nowadays? Who wears full three-piece suits nowadays, anyway? Who told her to do that? _

“What?” Isabel says.

“What,” Chiara repeats, floating off into nothing until she realizes how acutely she’s been staring, how rigid her focus is on the collar of Isabel’s jacket, the dark line of her belt against slate-gray trousers.

_ This is so stupid. Please. _

“Sorry,” Chiara mutters, turning to the warming pan of chicken to fiddle meaninglessly with the temperature, and her face is already starting to burn up like it always did.

_ Sometimes people wear clothes, and I really fucking hate that. Sometimes people don’t, and I really fucking hate that too. _

“Shouldn’t you be taking the soup and salad out,” she says, trying not to squirm too much.

Isabel makes a tiny noise that sounds like a  _ giggle— _

“Sure,” she says. “I’ll be back.”

Chiara doesn’t dare to turn back around until her entire self is less on fire, until she hears the wheels of the cart on the floor and the click of the door swinging shut, and even then she has to press her hands into her face and scream a little.

_ It’s a good kind of scream. It’s a good kind of scream. I just feel like I’m fourteen all over again, in a good way. Never thought that would be the case. _

The rest of it  _ really  _ passes in a blur— she can practically feel her brain disintegrating, punctuated only by the hints of Isabel’s perfume that she catches as they twirl pasta, as they trickle sauce and pass plates back and forth. There’s a kind of ease in the air between them, an ease that feels wholly unfamiliar and completely perfect. Chiara doesn’t keep track of anything. She doesn’t go over every move, every word. Maybe she’s just completely delirious, maybe she’s dreaming, maybe she isn’t even real, but she just…

Exists.

At some point, every plate is wheeled out. At some point, Chiara finishes the chocolate decorations on each individual Dobos torte, at some point it’s nearly impossible to keep her eyes open, at some point Isabel gives her a quick hug and plants a kiss on her cheek, motioning her toward the door.

So Chiara stumbles out through the hallway and into her room, into her closet, putting on her clothes, falling into her bed. She’s real. She’s here. She’s not going anywhere, not now.

_ I’ve never felt something so much and so little in my life, _ she thinks, and sleep consumes her once again.

* * *

She wakes up to her phone chiming— it’s a little before ten, and she can hear echoes of the reception, music and shouting unintelligible but audible. She wants to go back to bed. She picks it up anyway.

“Chiara, are you okay?” Feli’s voice says. “Did everything turn out okay?”

“Fine,” she says, her voice crackling with sleep. “What’s up.”

“Oh, I…” And he trails off, sounding lost, faint. Small. She clears her throat.

“Hey, Feli,” she says.

“Yeah?”

“I want you to know.”

“Sure, uh, what is it?”

“Thank you for everything. I— I love you.”

Silence. Complete silence, stretching out endlessly, wrapping around Chiara, a silence that’s abruptly shattered by a wet sniffle from the other side of the line.

“I love you too, Chiara,” Feli says, and the words are so much smoother than her own, let out so easily even through that barrier of tears. “I love you. Thank you for telling me. Thank you for everything.”

Chiara’s door opens, just a crack. A sliver of light streams in.

“I have to go,” she says. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” he says, and his voice is starting to cave under his crying. “Bye. I love you.”

She wants to say it again, like him, just as easily. So she does.

“Goodnight. I’ll come home tomorrow. I love you.”

She hangs up. The door swings open a little further, and there’s Isabel again, peering in and backlit by the light from the hallway.

“Hi,” she murmurs. “You’re awake?”

“Feli called,” Chiara says.

“Can I come in?”

Chiara blinks, and she shifts in her blankets, that fogginess momentarily clearing from her mind.

“Oh. Sure,” she says.

Isabel steps in quietly, shutting the door behind her. Darkness fills the room again— something warm settles on the bed next to her, someone sweet-smelling and soft, and Chiara finds herself reaching out, extending a hand to Isabel’s sleeve to tug it down—

“Oh— okay,” Isabel says, her voice quivering the slightest amount. Chiara can hear the thump of shoes hitting the floor, the sound of a light exhale, the rustle of her comforter as Isabel slides closer.

She closes her eyes. She reaches out completely, envelops herself in warmth, in that familiar feeling.

“You’re really warm,” Isabel says. The vibrations of her voice pass through her chest and Chiara’s cheek, pressed against Isabel’s stiff dress shirt.

“You’re the warm one,” Chiara mumbles.

“We can both be warm, I guess,” Isabel says, laughing a little, shifting closer.

“Why aren’t you out there?”

“I wanted to check in on you,” Isabel says. “They can wait a little, it won’t hurt them.”

“I like your tie,” Chiara says, and the words are so quiet and instinctive it’s like she’s breathing them out.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. It looks good on you. You look good, always.”

Isabel pulls her a little closer, resting her chin on Chiara’s head. “You do, too.”

“I’ve been wearing my brother’s clothes for the last week. Not sure about that one.”

Isabel chuckles. “Still. Doesn’t matter.”

“You know, ever since I saw you in the airport,” Chiara says, “I was thinking about your necklace. I still think it’s so beautiful. It really suits you.”

Another light chuckle. “Are you calling me beautiful?”

“Sure.”

“Wow, you’re really tired, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Don’t you dare mention this tomorrow morning.”

Isabel huffs, brushing Chiara’s hair out of her face. Her hands are solid, easy, smooth as they glide over. Their legs overlap easily— Chiara takes a full breath.

_ I’m beyond melting, _ she thinks.  _ I’m so, so far beyond it. _

She cups the curve of Isabel’s waist with one hand, splaying the other one across her back, feeling that warmth thrumming around her, under and over her. It’s gentle. It’s quiet. They lie there in the dark, and all she can smell is that cologne, that mellow, woody scent soaking through her.

“What is it,” she murmurs.

“Hmm?”

“Your perfume. You smell amazing.”

Isabel shifts away for a moment, almost self-consciously, before settling back in again.

“Oh,” she says. “Thank you. I’ll show you tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

Isabel starts to say something, pauses, clears her throat. “Um. Actually, are you wearing your brother’s cologne right now?”

“Jesus, call me out, will you?”

Isabel shakes in quiet laughter. “No, I just mean— you smell different.”

“Are you smelling me on a regular basis?”

Isabel snorts. “I mean…”

Chiara has to keep herself from laughing, too. “Yeah, it’s Feli’s. Not really my favorite, but desperate times call for desperate measures, you know how it is.”

“Perfume is a desperate kind of thing for you?”

“Yeah. Deal with it.”

“Okay,” Isabel says, a smile in her voice. “I will.”

“I might fall asleep on you.”

“That’s fine. You should be sleeping, anyway.”

They’re quiet, and Chiara drifts off for a while, letting everything fall away. The air around her is refreshing, cool— Isabel’s steady breathing almost mirrors the distant crashing of the ocean— and the sounds of the reception are comfortably ambient.

“You should go,” Chiara says eventually, when she feels a little more awake. “They’re probably waiting for you.”

“It’s okay,” Isabel says. “Don’t worry about it. Unless you want me to go.”

“Not really.”

Their legs tangle even further. Chiara closes her eyes, smiling into Isabel’s chest, a smile that feels both foreign and familiar.

“Okay. I’m going to sleep now,” she says.

“Goodnight,” Isabel says, and she traces slow circles across Chiara’s back, slow circles that lull her under completely. For once, sleep is nothing more than a warm embrace.


	20. something survives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It hurts  
> But something survives,  
> Though it's undermined.  
> I'd still like to see you sometime."  
> -Joni Mitchell, ["See You Sometime"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YolvVhoEuTc)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter... so so so crazy to be here. this is pretty short. I'm hoping to write a fun epilogue though :) it's been such a wild ride and I will ramble more at the end, but thank you so much for following this journey and Chiara's growth with me <3 it's been a crazy time and I appreciate every single person who took the time to look at this
> 
> CWs: none!
> 
> please enjoy :)

_Last time I was packing, I was cleaning up all the detritus from trying to kill myself,_ Chiara thinks. _Last time I was packing, it was to come here._

_Now, I…_

“Hey, need any help?” Isabel’s voice calls— Chiara glances up from her suitcase to see Isabel’s eyes peering back at her, hair sticking out of a loose bun, hands perched on the door frame.

“I’m almost done,” Chiara says.

Isabel steps in fully. “You didn’t bring much, did you?”

Chiara snorts. “Didn’t have much to begin with.”

“Just clothes, right?”

“Yep.”

Isabel sits on the bed, sheets neatly made and ironed for once, watching as Chiara sweeps all her earrings into a plastic bag. There really isn’t much— she’s spent more time cleaning up the actual room than putting everything away again. 

Her progress has been slow regardless. It’s been a gloomy-looking week, colored mostly by wrapping up business and writing memos on her part. There hasn’t been a single sunny day since the wedding. Today is no exception, with the sky thick and overcast, casting a muggy shadow over everything, the room stifling yet chilly.

“The weather is so weird today,” Chiara mutters. “This whole week, really.”

Isabel chuckles. “It’s barely the end of August. Be glad you’re leaving now, because it all takes a real downward turn after fall starts.”

“Huh,” Chiara says. She closes the bag, dropping it into her open suitcase.

 _I can’t believe fall is already coming up._ “Summer’s really ending.”

“It’s too bad, right?” Isabel muses. “Summer here isn’t even that good.” 

Chiara shrugs and slides the door shut on an empty closet. “It was fine. Just not hot enough.”

“Hey, exactly!” Isabel says, breaking into a delighted grin and leaning back. “Nobody else thinks that, but it’s true. We barely get a couple weeks’ worth of actual sunny days out here. That’s just not enough when it’s raining the rest of the year.”

“It won’t be as busy, will it,” Chiara says.

Isabel shakes her head. “No. Honestly, the fall is alright, since it’s crabbing season, but the winter and early spring are pretty empty. Daniel and Anna usually end up going part-time or traveling around then, so it might just be me and Al.”

Chiara snorts, crouching down to zip up her suitcase, feeling all the joints in her knees crack comfortably. “Hopefully Al can handle that.”

Isabel giggles. “Hey, give him some credit. He’s nice, he’ll be fine.”

“I’ll agree with one of those.”

“Come on,” Isabel says, and she grins, stretching her arms out. “You’re done, right?”

“Um,” Chiara mumbles, her pulse already speeding up. “Yeah.”

Isabel reaches out further like she’s a cat stretching in the sun. “Come here.”

“I—” That burning rush is already crawling all over Chiara, which is absolutely ridiculous because _we’re not dating but we’re definitely involved with each other and that’s been pretty fucking obvious. There’s nothing to be nervous about. This is just normal operations. This has been the last week, the last month, all that._

_But I’m still about to set myself on fire._

_And I’m still going to go sit with her._

So Chiara gingerly sits down next to Isabel— and she melts around Chiara immediately, leaning over to wrap her arms around her, to press against her back so her chin can sit on Chiara’s shoulder.

“I’m going to miss you,” Isabel says, and each word seems to buzz straight into Chiara’s chest and whisper into her ear. “Is that cliché to say?”

Chiara huffs. “It’s going to be fine. You know I’ll be back after I get my shit together, and we both have those things called cell phones.”

Isabel exhales, amused, stretching her legs out so they frame Chiara completely. “I’ll still miss you.”

“Well—” Chiara mutters, “well, me too, but what are we going to do about it?” 

“Aww,” Isabel coos. “It’s okay. No pressure. Just talk to me every once in a while, okay?”

That flame burning up across Chiara’s face intensifies by a thousand, and getting her words out is a monumental task. “Of course. What do you think.”

Isabel presses her face into Chiara’s shoulder, grinning against her blouse— so Chiara lets herself lean back a little, letting the back of her head rest on that shoulder, letting Isabel rest solid against her. 

She smells like detergent and the hand soap from the kitchen and citrusy cologne. She feels like a furnace against Chiara’s back. 

They’re silent. Chiara closes her eyes, daring to breathe, to exist, to savor that solidity behind her.

_I like this. I love this. I’ll miss this._

“I’m going to miss this,” she mumbles, the words barely more than a whisper, coming out before she can really think about it. “I want to come back soon.”

Isabel pulls her closer, tighter.

“When is Feli picking you up?” she says.

Chiara glances at the clock on the wall. _I can’t believe it’s already noon._ “In twenty minutes or so. Our flight is at four.”

“You should probably get everything downstairs, huh,” Isabel sighs.

“Huh,” Chiara repeats. She finds herself putting her hands over Isabel’s, lightly pressing them to her chest, feeling that warm pulse, hearing that soft breathing. She finds herself tangling her legs with Isabel’s. She finds herself turning so they face each other, letting those hands fall loosely on her waist—

“Come here,” Isabel says, grinning brilliantly, sparkling.

“Okay,” Chiara says. She leans in.

It’s fine. It’s good. At some point, Isabel dissolves into giggles and falls back on the bed, laughing up at the ceiling and pulling Chiara along, and she collapses into that abundance of laughter too—

“I am so,” Isabel gasps between fits of laughter, “happy right now. You have no clue.”

Chiara tries and fails to smother her own laughter, to say _I should be saying the same thing,_ to say _I feel like I’m about to explode._ Every breath feels impossible. She settles on pulling closer to Isabel, laying her head on her chest— listening to that wild-running heartbeat— a crazy grin splitting her in two, lacing through her and threading together some impossibly joyous freedom.

Today is kind of a bitter day, but for now, she can be happy. They laugh, and keep laughing.

* * *

“Uh, does he need any help?” Daniel says, frowning lightly as Feli heaves Chiara’s suitcase down the steps of the entrance.

“Trust me, he’s fine,” Chiara snorts. “Anyways, did you check that younger couple out yet?”

Anneliese waves a quick hand in her direction. “I already did it. You don’t have to worry about that now, you know that?”

Chiara waves her hand right back, rolling her eyes. “I’m still here, I’m still your manager. So I’m still making sure you’re still doing your job.”

Anneliese scoffs— but it’s fond, light, and Chiara is struck by exactly how much she’s going to miss this—

_God, I hate that. This is so fucking sappy. This is so annoying. I feel like a college freshman leaving home for the first time, I feel like it’s the first day of kindergarten or whatever, I don’t even know._

_(I just don’t want to leave yet.)_

“Listen, you better text me when you get to the airport and when you land, you hear?” Daniel says, eyebrows raised.

 _Oh, you're really asking for it now._ “What are you, my father?”

Isabel dissolves into silent giggles behind him. Daniel just flips her the bird and keeps his eyes on Chiara.

“When you get home, too,” he says. “Seriously.”

“Sure,” Chiara mumbles, and that irritating surge of bittersweet rises in her throat again, making it hard to breathe, to keep herself together. _It shouldn’t be this hard. And he’s being so fucking trite. We’re just being friendly, just saying a quick see-you-later. They’re just telling me to keep in touch. I shouldn’t be feeling so…_

“Come on now, we don’t want to make anyone late,” Anneliese sighs. “We’ll see you soon, Chiara?”

“Yeah,” she replies, quiet, tense. “Soon.”

_Soon. Soon. That’s a promise._

Daniel sighs and throws up his hands in mock-surrender. “Fuck it. Chiara, come here.”

“I— what?” she stutters, but it’s too late, because he’s already enveloping her in a hug, clapping her on the back.

“We’re going to miss you,” he whispers, “seriously. And thank you for everything.”

He lets her go— then Anneliese sticks out a hand, so they exchange a firm handshake— and that same _thank you_ is shouted across the border between them, silent and piercing, Anneliese’s eyes boring straight into her.

 _Why?_ Chiara tries to shout back, to blare into the space of their eye contact.

But the moment ends as quickly as it starts, and she knows it’s time to leave, to absorb the last view of the Quill she’ll have for a while. The wood paneling and polished tables seem to glow back at her, to say something— 

“Here, I’ll walk you out,” Isabel says.

So Chiara turns to leave and opens the door— they step outside— she raises a brief hand in farewell, a gesture Daniel and Anneliese echo—

The door closes, and the dam breaks. She buries herself in Isabel’s arms.

_What do I even say? What is there to say?_

_Am I crying?_

“It was a good summer,” Isabel says, soft, gentle. “Everything aside.”

“Yeah,” Chiara chokes out.

She can hear the rental car starting, pulling up to the porch, Feli undoubtedly watching their every move. She can’t bring herself to care too much. It was a good summer while it lasted, and she’ll be back soon. So she loosens herself, wiping her eyes dry, swallowing down the tears that will undoubtedly surge up later.

_Soon. Things will be okay._

Isabel leans forward, plants a soft kiss on Chiara’s forehead— Chiara grabs her face and makes it a real one.

“Bye,” she says, and every part of her is burning up, and she doesn’t even care anymore. Feli is probably losing his mind. She’s probably making them late. “I really have to go now.”

“Okay,” Isabel says, her grin too bright to look at, the way it always is. “Bye.”

Chiara turns and does the awkward walk-jog to the car, keeping her eyes trained on the door handle and the seat and the windshield when she gets in—

“Chiara,” Feli whispers. “Did you just…”

“Step on it,” she mutters.

“You—”

“I said, step on it.”

He starts the car, and she turns to look out the window, to hold a final moment of eye contact with Isabel and hold up a hand, to exchange tiny smiles, to absorb that final wondrous moment before the Quill rushes out of sight. The sky starts to shadow over, rain lightly drizzling the windshield. Chiara can’t let go of the smile on her face.

“Okay,” Feli says the moment they pull onto the main road, his voice bubbling over with excitement, filling up with that giddy recklessness she hasn’t heard from him in so long. “Spill. Everything.”

* * *

“He hated the rain, didn’t he?” Chiara says, shutting the car door behind her and staring up at the sky.

Feli shrugs. “He said he’s made peace with it. I mean, he moved _here._ You can’t hate rain and live on the Oregon coast.”

“Huh,” Chiara says, peeling her damp bangs off her forehead and out of her face. “Where are we scattering, again? Is it just this bag?”

Feli nods. “Yep! It’s about half of him. Here, let’s go down to the rocks.”

So they make their way across the small parking lot, stepping onto a trail that winds back and forth, sloping down to a narrow inlet where the ocean surges in.

“Did he tell you to go to this spot exactly?” Chiara says, stepping around a rock.

“Yep, Devil’s Churn,” Feli says.

Chiara snorts. “Devil’s Churn. That’s the craziest fucking name for a place you want your ashes scattered.”

Feli laughs, ambling past her with light steps. “He said it was his favorite place on the coast.”

She can see why— though the air is salty and cold, there’s a peculiar comfort in the raging roar of the water as it thunders in and sprays over rocks, forming rapids and trickling in streams and falls, a feeling of wild abandon and open nature overtaking her as they reach the rocky ground around the inlet. Nobody else is in sight. If she overlooks the fence and the trail, it feels completely untouched by anything human.

There’s just the earth, and the pounding waves, and the sky pouring down from above.

“Let’s go all the way out there,” Feli says, pointing, “a little closer to the mouth. Just be careful.”

The ocean is so near, so brash. They pick their way across, over jutting stone and shallow pools, keeping a healthy distance from that raging water’s edge.

“Do you want to do it?” Feli asks, turning back to glance at her.

Chiara shrugs. “I’ll do some of it.”

“Okay,” Feli says, and he fishes out the plastic bag full of ash in his pocket—

 _That’s him,_ Chiara finds herself thinking, gingerly stepping over pebbles as she makes her way over, as Feli crouches down on a flat ledge of stone by the water. _That’s Roberto. That bag of gray dust is about half of my grandfather’s body, burned and crushed, and now we’re going to let it go into nothing._

“It’s getting kind of cold,” she mumbles.

“Yeah,” Feli says, holding out a hand to help her down. “It’s okay, we’ll be quick.”

“Okay.”

She settles down next to him, huddling close, pressed to his side. He opens the bag and tilts it down toward the water, and a thin stream of gray floats through the air, mingling with the spraying and splashing of the waves, running along the water’s snaking flow. Chiara watches— and that water carries her grandfather through twisting rapids and deep into the inlet, carries him into seafoam and sky.

“I like it here,” she says. “I like it too.”

She can’t tell if she’s talking to Feli or Roberto. Neither of them respond to her.

“Okay,” Feli says at last. “Here.”

She takes the bag, about half of its ashes now poured out. Then she does exactly what he did, watching as that stream of gray melts away like it’s evaporating under her hands, little pieces of bone bobbing through the current like sailboats.

_Goodbye. I’ll miss you._

She doesn’t have the tears for this, not now. Undoubtedly, they’ll come later, maybe in bed late at night, or dripping down on the meal she’s eating, or into the tissue box at the therapist’s office she finally called last night. Maybe they’ll fall across Feli’s shoulder. Maybe they’ll fall across Isabel’s. For now, though, the rain and the spray are enough, the booming ocean drowning out everything else.

She thinks about Roberto floating down the inlet, around jutting rocks. She thinks about him drifting and settling down into the rocky ground as waves churn above him. She thinks about getting splashed up and trickling back down, existing forever in this sublime turbulence, reeling with the waves and floating out into the ocean someday.

Then the bag empties itself completely. So she stands up and makes her way back to the trail, Feli scrambling to walk next to her.

Looking back a final time— a massive sneaker wave roars up, spraying where they just were, washing over the rocks, melding back into the inlet. She can’t find a single indication they were ever there. She can’t see a single sign of Roberto anymore.

“We would have gotten soaked,” Feli chuckles. “Well, more than we already are.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Let’s go.”

The car is oddly warm when they get in, warm enough that Feli doesn’t have to crank the heat. Outside, the rain starts to pour down as they drive, splattering in lashes of water on the windshield.

“I’m going to miss it here, rain and all,” Feli says.

“Best and worst time of my life,” she replies.

They’re silent. Chiara closes her eyes, but sleep doesn’t come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's it! expect that epilogue within a couple weeks, it won't be too long. [this](https://cupofkey.tumblr.com/post/622310955151392768/though-the-air-is-salty-and-cold-theres-a) is Devil's Churn btw! it's one of the most awe-inspiring places I've ever been. anyways, Big Ramble Incoming:
> 
> first off I say it 25/7 but I seriously cannot express how thankful I am for everyone who read this, gave kudos, bookmarked, left comments... every time any of yall breathed on my story I felt so fucking grateful. you have no idea. especially for people who said they could relate or find something cathartic in this, I am so honored my own thoughts and experiences could reach you in some way, and I am sending eternal good vibes and well wishes to every one of you. I hope this met your expectations and I am 1000% open to any changes or criticisms
> 
> secondly whoa it's crazy what inspired me to do this?? short list that definitely doesn't cover all of it: bojack horseman, j. kenji lopez alt and the folks at seriouseats, a late-night reread of spinyfruit's Tesoro Mio, late-night rereads of Jack Kerouac and Ken Kesey, my slow progress with Infinite Jest. honorable mentions go to the many hours I've spent driving up and down the Oregon coast, and the many hours I've spent working in the kitchen (and eating lots of good food!!). finally, we can’t forget about hours upon days upon weeks of Joni Mitchell. I am still not sick of her music (and I exclusively listen to it when I write), which is the wildest shit. would never be able to create this without all that inspiring stuff!!
> 
> third, not to get personal, but this is the first thing I've finished writing in years? I feel like I've really rediscovered the pleasure of writing for myself, found catharsis and relief in what I was writing about... it's crazy how much of a personal impact writing a hetalia fanfiction in quarantine 2020 has affected me. never thought I'd be saying that lol but it's true. and so many of my good feelings abt this are all thanks to YOU!
> 
> please please please feel free to talk to me or ask me questions about anything at any time, because I will for sure talk back to you!! do not be embarrassed. if you look at my tumblr you will see I am even more embarrassing
> 
> thank you once again and have a wonderful day <3

**Author's Note:**

> kudos/comments are gold. if you comment I guarantee I will respond with a paragraph
> 
> EDIT: I made a tumblr if you would like to check it out and ask me stuff! it's probably going to be updates on my writing, shitposting, and things i feel are relevant (joni mitchell and food) I have the same username [@cupofkey](https://cupofkey.tumblr.com)


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